Someone New
by impallackles
Summary: Michael Cohen is a valued literature teacher at Texas' finest Academy. He's respected. Although, he thinks he is the worst version of a human being to ever grace the face of the earth. As he deals with the lonely, secluded life he's been living for far too long, he's soon distracted by the school's newest member. There are things about her that Michael can't ignore for long and it
1. Chapter 1

"You look like crap." Garth set his mountain of paperwork down on a desk with a light thump.

"Good morning to you too, Garth." Michael's eyes never strayed from the paper in front of him. It was the thousandth essay on 'The_ Grapes of Wrath'_ he'd seen that morning, and all the words were beginning to run together.

Unenthusiastically, Michael's eyes slid over to the large pile Garth was struggling to tame, he held back a sigh. "Please say that whatever that is, it's not for me."

"Not all of it." Garth gathered around three quarters of the pile and placed it on the left side of Michael. "Mills wants the system tuned up. If you were to join the twenty-first century and do it online, it would be a lot easier."

"The system's fine." Michael replied, scribbling a mark at the top of the page and pushing it away from him. He grabbed the mug of coffee that sat beside him and took a long sip, wrinkling his nose as he remembered he'd let it go cold.

Garth slid his thin figure into a chair and leaned back, kicking his feet up onto the table. "What's up your ass?" Garth smirked, before letting his face drop into a look of sarcastic compassion. "Is it your special time?"

Michael glared at him. "Shut up, Garth." His tone was harsher than he had originally intended.

Garth pulled his feet off the table and frowned deeply. "Alright, jeez... I was kiddin' around."

Guilt washed over him as he watched Garth's face fall. He was right - The two had structured their relationship around sarcasm and friendly repartee, but he never acted like this.

"Sorry. I'm just tired." He winced as his chair screeched across the wooden floor boards as he stood. He picked up his mug and poured the contents down the drain, before picking up the coffee pot and pouring another cup. "Maybe I'm not even grumpy, you're just oddly upbeat."

Garth immediately perked up. "Can you blame me? Even you're interested in the new kids."

Michael turned and leaned against the counter of the teachers lounge. "You're gonna start freaking your students out if you get any friendlier." He smirked.

"I'm not talking about a new student." Garth rolled his eyes. "Do you not read any newsletters?"

Michael raised an eyebrow as the words fell from Garth's lips. "No. Of course I don't."

Garth shook his head and continued. "Well if you did, you'd know that the new History teacher starts today." As he got to the end of his sentence, Michael could feel the excitement radiating off of him.

"Right." Michael stated. Even he heard how bland his reply was, but this really didn't phase him. Sure, they'd be working across the hall from each other, so awkward 'Good Mornings' were a given and getting rid of the slow walking, heavy breathing substitute will be great. But other than that, they won't really effect him at all.

Garth's expression, once again, faded as he looked to Michael. "Why are you so dull? Get excited."

"Why should I be excited?" Michael questioned.

"Come on, man. You know what I'm saying - you haven't come out with Dean and I in weeks. All you do is throw yourself into essay after essay, you're here all the time. Day and night."

Michael knew he could talk to Garth, but he just couldn't get into all of it. After his father's death, knowing he'd be searching through all of his old, dusty possessions that weekend. Deciding what to keep or sell, burn or throw away. With this, he was going to keep himself to himself.

"Garth, I-"

"I know the past few months have been hard on ya, bro, but if you just-"

"Garth, drop it."

"Drop what?" Dean walked into the lounge, heading for the pot of coffee beside Michael. He was wearing his usual attire; plaid shirt, worn, ripped jeans. Michael stared at his clothes enviously. Dean got away with wearing anything he wanted, because he spent all of his time down in the school's garage which meant he pulled overalls over the top of his clothes anyway. Michael, on the other hand, was captured by the school's strict dress code. So he was confined to wearing ties, dress shirts and dress pants.

"Nothing," Michael shook his head. "Garth was just getting excited over meeting the fresh blood."

"Oh yeah - I forgot that was today." Dean frowned a little, running a tough hand over the stubble on his jaw. "Damn, am I glad that sub's gone."

"Right?" Michael agreed readily.

"Y'all are bullies." Garth pouted, and Dean chuckled. Michael glanced at him _gratefully._ There was something soothing about Dean - the way his eyes crinkled, the rough saltiness to his voice. He had a way of dismissing the tension, which often came in useful.

Other teachers had started to flow into the lounge, throwing jackets onto the back of the second-hand couches as their voices bounced around the walls. Michael glanced at the clock, wondering what his chances were of getting first class to do something quiet so he could sit and rest for a little while.

Just then, a tall, assertive woman in a pantsuit - Principle Mills - walked in. Closely followed by a woman Michael had never seen before. Everything about her resembled the stereotypical university professor - her hair was dark, falling neatly over her shoulders, a navy dress hugging her figure pleasantly. Michael glanced down subconsciously, suddenly feeling underdressed.

Dean and Garth didn't seem to have noticed her, but Michael watched as she moved around the room, being introduced to different teachers. She was then introduced to Dean, who turned a huge smile on her. He watched her reaction carefully; too often had he seen Dean use that smile to reel in unsuspecting women, only to throw them back when he told them he was engaged. This woman, who he had yet to put a name to, only smiled at him politely.

Michael raised an eyebrow. That had never really happened before.

Then Mills was moving onto Michael. Before he could properly prepare himself she was talking, "This is Michael Cohen; he has the classroom opposite yours. He teaches American Literature. Michael, this is Samantha Riggs. She'll be taking over Mr. Walker's classes."

Michael shifted his mug to his left hand, plastering on his best smile and shaking the woman's hand politely. His eyes clashed with her Hazel ones. Their hands slid together almost perfectly, her skin was soft and her grip was warm as he stared, a little infatuated.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." She spoke. Her voice was very soft and soothing.

"Likewise." Michael was amazed he actually managed a reply, and then Samantha was moving onto Garth. When her hand left his, Michael's skin felt cold and empty, so he threw his hand into his pocket to chase the sensation.

"Miss. Riggs is not only new to our school, but to Houston as well." Mills said, her smile spreading across her face. "I trust you all will make her feel welcome."

Dean wrapped an arm around Michael's shoulders and slapped him gently on the arm.

"You can count on us, Boss." He said.

Michael smiled weakly.

xXx

"Masters, don't think I don't know what you're doing." Michael's voice broke through the silent classroom. His senior class were supposed to be reading their latest chapter of 'The Great Gatsby', Meg's eyes had not been on her book in the last fifteen minutes. Her hand was wrapped around her phone, just below her desk. Michael beckoned her over. "Bring it up here."

She groaned. "Seriously? I just got it back from Turner." She slipped out of her desk and began walking up to the front of the class.

"Mr. Turner." He corrected. She did look rather upset, he couldn't help but soften his expression. She dropped the phone in his hand and sighed.

"I won't keep it for the week, you can have it back at the end of the day. But I don't want to see it in this class again. Clear?" He closed his fingers around the phone and placed it in his desk drawer.

Meg visibly perked up and nodded. "Got it." She turned her back on him and walked backed to her desk.

Michael sighed quietly, looking back down at the book on his own desk. A hand shot up in the middle of the room, Michael looked up through his eye lashes.

"What is it, Eve?"

"I have a question."

"Is it relevant?"

The girl opened her mouth, planning to say something, but slowly closing it again. Her hand dropped back onto the desk and she shook her head.

Michael ran his hands through his hair, looking at the rest of the students. Most of them seemed interested enough, some we're shooting glances at the clock, others were sending the odd whispered comment to their friend. Michael made a mental note to actually sleep tonight, so he could put in the effort to form a decent lesson tomorrow. He didn't become a teacher to just sit around and do nothing all day.

Michael moved down the lines of students, black blazers and red ties forming a noticeable pattern. It was hypnotising.

His eyes fell on a kid in the front row, his blazer was ruffled and his tie was undone. The fringe of his hair falling over his forehead as he rested his head on the open book. His legs were curled under his chair and his mouth was slightly open.

The bell sounded and the students started moving - packing away books and grabbing bags. The boy in the front, however, remained lifeless.

Michael stood up, crossing his arms across his chest as he watched his class leave. "Finish this chapter for tomorrow." He called over the boisterousness of the class. "And be prepared to talk about Gatsby's effect on Carraway. - Masters, remember to come and get your cell, I'm not hunting you down."

The kid was still sleeping and some kids had stopped to laugh at him, some even pulled out their phones.

"Alright, alright. Move on." Michael waved them out of the room. Vultures, he thought to himself. Once the classroom was empty, Michael stood in front of the desk for a moment, before reaching out with his foot and kicking a leg of the desk.

"Morning sunshine." He said.

The boy's head shot up and he looked around himself tiredly.

"You've been out for a while." Michael sat on the desk next to him. "I've got slackers, Ben, you're not one of them." He sighed and tilted his head to the side slightly.

Ben didn't look at Michael, quickly standing and preoccupying himself with piling up his books. "I'm sorry, I didn't sleep well last night." He glanced up at Michael quickly and headed for the door. "It won't happen again, I swear."

Ben sounded so guilty, it made Michael feel guilty for waking him. Ben had started hanging out with a tougher crowd - the kids with piercings and band stickers on their notebooks - but Ben was a good kid. He got good grades, always arrived on time. This was strange.

"Alright." Michael stated, though he looked at Ben warily. "Catch some sleep tonight, alright? Get going to your next class. If Mrs. Blake's got a problem with you being late, tell her to have a word with me." Ben nodded and hurried out the door.

Michael slipped into the seat that Ben had left empty and dropped his face onto his arms. He had a free period, he thought that he should use it to actually do some work, but he really just wanted to sleep. It was funny how he was just lecturing a kid on how to take care of himself, when Michael himself couldn't do it. He couldn't nap even if he wanted to - this free period was also Dean's free period and as if on cue, Dean walked into the room and sat down on the desk next to Michael.

"Michael, how old are you?" He asked.

Michael's voice was muffled by his arms. "Twenty-nine. Why?"

"Because you're acting like you're eighty."

Michael lifted his head. "Everyone is so full of compliments today."

"You know that's not how I meant it." Dean's expression softened slightly. "You're not acting like yourself. You've got yourself in a funk."

"A funk, Dean?" Michael scowled at him. "I'm fine. Funk free zone."

"I believe you." Dean said way too easily. Michael narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Come out with me and Garth this weekend. The Roadhouse. My treat."

Michael didn't want to go out but he thought that if he laughed and smiled at the correct moments, it might get them off his back.

"I'll think about it." He said. Dean seemed to take this as a small victory. Both men were quiet for a moment.

Dean filled the silence. "What do you think of the new gal?"

Michael looked away carefully, composing his features as he stared at the desk. A touch of her hand had made Michael feel something he hadn't felt in years. Who gave her the right to do that?

"I don't really know her." He said shortly, not daring to meet Dean's eyes.

"I think she's nice." Dean continued, "Way to classy for this place. D'you hear she's way over qualified?"

"Yeah?" Michael looked up at him now. "She might not last long here. She might get bored."

"Not if Mills has got anything to do with it. Did you see her? She's smitten."

He internally cringed at the word.

"You didn't answer my question." Dean hit Michael's chair with his foot.

"What?"

"What do your think of her?"

"I told you. I barely know her." Michael said sharply.

"Call me crazy, I thought I saw something between you two."

"Like?" Michael questioned, immediately regretting it afterwards.

"To be cliché, a spark." Dean shrugged.

"You're crazy." Michael snapped.

"I'm saying what I saw, dude." Dean replied defensively. "You've been the living embodiment of darkness for months now. You saw her and you lit up. Your eyes turned into hearts!"

Michael levelled a gaze with him that could kill a man.

"An exaggeration, maybe." Dean amended terribly. "There is nothing wrong with natural chemistry, brother. Get to know her?"

"I don't need anymore friends. I've got you and Garth, and you're both a pain in my ass." He attempted to use sarcasm to cover up his affection.

"I am sick of your 'I'm supposed to die alone' crap." Dean thought for a moment. "Some people are cut out to be alone. Like nuns. But you, you are not."

"I'm not /destined/ to be alone." Michael argued. "I'm /choosing/ to be alone. Big difference."

Dean threw his hands up and stood. "I give up." He walked towards the door and guilt settled in Michael's stomach.

"I'm not that much of an asshole." He called after him. "I said I'd go to Jo's, didn't I?"

Dean smiled, quickly wiping it off his face before turning. "You said you'd think about it."

"I thought about it." Michael replied, fully aware he'd regret the words coming out his mouth. "You're right, I need it. So I'm in."

Dean grinned and pointed at him. "I'm holding you to that."

Michael nodded. "I know." Dean searched his face for a brief moment, before turning and disappearing down the hall. Michael groaned and looked up at the ceiling, sending curses to a God he'd never prayed to in his life before dropping his head back onto his arms.


	2. Chapter 2

When Michael had outgrown the concept that his father was immortal, he soon became convinced that he would die in a way that was violent and bloody. In any case, there was no way that he would go quietly. For the larger part of his teenage years, Michael spent most of his time waiting on middle-of-the-night phone calls; alerting him that some alcohol diseased collision or bar brawl gone wrong had finally taken him. He waited for one of the many people his father had pissed off to finally come and take their revenge.

It was a surprise, and sort of a relief when, late at night, a heart attack finally took him. He was alone, of course, in his apartment. No one was around to hear the scream he probably didn't make, clutching his chest while his knees buckled beneath him, crumbling like an old building after it had just been blown to pieces.

No one knew if this is what it looked like when he died. Samuel Campbell found him - which was fitting in a way, considering he'd been cleaning up his messes over the past twenty years - and by that time, he was long gone, the colour drained from his features.

The hospital announced him Dead on Arrival. The funeral was a week later.

All things considered, Michael handled it just fine. After the funeral there were no real breakdowns or alcohol binges; life continued for those who he had left to live it.

The only real evidence of Michael's grief were the nightmares. Dreams where he'd found himself in the room with his father, witness to a hundred different versions of the attack that stole his father. He'd wake up in a cold sweat, falling asleep again after turning on a few lights, maybe the television. Anything to make his lonely apartment seem fuller than it was. No one was around to witness it, so as far as they knew, Michael was doing just fine.

He was fine when they picked out the coffin. When they attended the funeral. He was fine when his family started talking about the man in the past tense. And he was fine, that Sunday, when they packed up what was left of his fathers belongings from his apartment on the edge of town.

The early-October air was cool and their breath rose in puffs around them as they spoke, but Michael's skin still prickled with heat as he pushed the last few boxes into the back of his car.

"Strange, isn't it?" Gabriel said, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. "He was here for almost fifteen years... and all we found worth saving was a box of old pictures and a couple of jackets."

"It was dad's, Gabriel." He didn't look at his younger brother, just slammed the trunk closed. "You know what he was like."

Gabriel pressed his lips together and nodded, ignoring the feeling in his gut.

Susan walked around the side of the car, autumn wind pulling strands of hair across her face. She looked up at the tatty building and sighed.

"I will miss your father; even though he drove me crazy." She said. "But I will not miss this place."

"Come on," Gabriel teased, trying to lighten the situation, "Whiskey. Dust. Testosterone. It's got you written all over it."

Susan laughed softly, before moving her eyes to Michael. He was barely paying attention, staring at the building as if it was his worst enemy.

"Michael," She said quietly, Michael turned to her. "Why don't you come over for dinner tonight?"

Her eyes were tight and filled with worry. She probably thought Michael was going to go home and drink himself into a coma. But in reality, he was planning to go home, crawl in to bed and not emerge again till morning. Since it wasn't even seven o'clock, he decided that probably wasn't healthy either.

"Yeah," Gabriel supported, a small smile on his lips. "Kali's gonna meet us there; just the four of us. It'll be great."

Michael looked between his brother and his Mom, unsure. For years, Sunday dinners had been a family tradition for the four of them - even after they'd moved out. After his fathers death, the tradition quickly died off. Michael knew that it was probably his fault.

He wasn't sure why he was so reluctant to go, his father didn't live there anymore - hell, his parents had been divorced for nearly twenty years - so it's not like his absence would be more prominent in the house. Still, Michael found himself racking his brain for an excuse not to go over.

Looking at his mother, she was smiling. But he could tell she was worried, her eyes were tight and drawn. Michael felt himself give in.

"Yeah, okay."

xXx

Michael had always liked washing dishes. There was something soothing about the warm water, the satisfying process of washing and drying. It was really the only cleaning he had the patience for. Which is probably why his kitchen was always so clean, while clothes were thrown all over the place, and books and papers cluttered the worktops.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, drying the clean dishes that were handed to him. Gabriel and Kali still sat at the table. Kali's face was lit up with a warm smile and Gabriel laughed quietly, Michael's eyes softened.

"She seems a little better, doesn't she?" Michael asked his mother quietly. Susan looked over her shoulder at her step-daughter, a sad smile coming across her lips.

"She does. I think she's coming to terms with it."

"It's good." Michael stated, turning and putting a bowl back in its rightful spot in the cupboard. Susan watched him, aimlessly moving her hands around in the water.

"How about you? How are you holding up?" She asked, worried lines creasing her forehead.

Michael's go to response was to respond "I'm fine", but he could never really say that to his mom. Partly because she never believed him, mostly because he couldn't live with himself if he lied to her. He looked over at her, his eyes pleading her not to make him say it aloud.

She nodded silently and averted her gaze to the water.

"Michael..." She broke the silence, "I'm worried about you. I don't see you anymore, you never go out by the sounds of it. How do I know you're taking care of yourself?"

Michael swallowed guiltily. Most of the time he never managed to eat. It was like her forgot about it. He was hardly ever hungry, and he'd forget to pick up something to eat. Cooking suddenly seemed like too much of a chore, despite how much he used to enjoy it. Tonight he seemed to snap out of it, mainly because his family was there. It felt safe and familiar. He'd suddenly realised how hungry he was so he stuffed himself full of pasta and pie. Now he felt uncomfortably full, as if his stomach was fighting against the presence of actual food.

"All I'm saying," Susan continued as she felt her son shutting down. "Is that you're in a rut. You need something new. Maybe someone new.."

Michael let his head fall and a sigh escaped his lips. "What do you want me to do, mom? Join OkCupid?"

Susan's head turned towards her son. "Hey, attitude." She raised her eyebrows but there was a smile on her face, sarcasm was good. She pulled the drain in the sink, drying her hands on the towel. "Just try to get out more. And come round more too, you think I don't wanna see you?"

Michael let himself look properly shameful. "Sorry. I will."

She smiled, reaching her hand up to rest a hand on Michael's cheek. He let out a small breath, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. She stroked his cheek gently with her thumb, before moving away to join Kali at the table.

Gabriel walked into the kitchen as she left, carrying his and Kali's empty wine glasses, red streaks staining the sides. Michael wrinkled his nose at them. Ever since Gabriel started attending college he had acquired a taste for red wine, even though Michael was fairly sure you don't drink the stuff unless you've got a sustainable amount of grey in your hair. He picked up his beer, eyeing Gabriel as he walked past.

"Look at you, helping with the dishes." Gabriel teased. "Total mama's boy."

Michael smirked. "You know it. At least I helped, all you did was drain a bottle of Chateau-whatever."

"Hey, I helped make dinner!" Gabriel retorted.

Michael nodded. "I forgot, you're a housewife now." His voice turned softer as he looked at him. "How's Kali doing?"

Gabriel took a breath. "Better, thank god. She's got an appointment next week, but I think the last miscarriage was...it was too much."

Michael nodded and shifted uncomfortably. Right after Gabriel and Kali had tied the knot, a baby was the first thing on their to do list. But three years down the line and two miscarriages later, they still had nothing but a half-finished nursery that was unbelievably painful to look at.

Gabriel seemed as reluctant to talk as Michael because he changed the subject. "I ran into Dean at the store earlier. He said to kick you in the balls if I got the chance - what did you do?"

Without thinking, Michael crossed his legs and sneered. "I told him I'd go to Jo's with him and Garth. I kinda...bailed last minute."

Gabriel gave him an agitated look. "Since when is it so hard to get you into a bar?"

Michael shrugged and shook his head. "They're just not my kind of scene anymore." It was mostly true. He had enough memories from clubs and bars from his college years. Still, that hadn't stopped him a year ago.

"This is ridiculous." Gabriel shook his head. "You can't live like a hermit."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Shut up."

"Whatever, it's your problem." Gabriel shrugged. "You've got your hands full. He seemed pretty pissed."

"Great." Michael muttered.

When Michael got home that night, he found things exactly the way he left them. Kitchen counters were clean, the sink was empty, and there was still day old coffee sitting at the bottom of the pot. There was a case of empty beer bottles sitting at the door, waiting to be taken out to recycling. A pile of clothes sat heaped on top of the washer, as if they were going to clean themselves. He must've left the TV on, because a Patriots game flashed light into the living room, though the sound was low.

It was quiet. It was supposed to be home, but it didn't feel like it. Even though he had lived there for a while now and he hid himself away in it so often, he secretly hated it. He put his favourite beer in the fridge, played his favourite albums on the record player, but nothing ever clicked.

He sighed heavily and threw his keys, jacket and phone onto the table beside the door. He walked over the fridge, squinting as the light shined in his face. He contemplated cracking open a third beer but decided against it, closing the door. He wandered into the living room, closing the blind against the soft Houston city lights. He wanted the window to look onto a backyard, maybe a garage so his car didn't have to sit in a parking lot. He wanted something more than a wall to separate him from his neighbours.

What would he do with a house? He was only one person. One person needed one apartment: one bedroom, one couch, one toothbrush beside the sink in the bathroom. He encouraged himself not to worry about it and he fell onto the couch. He managed to pull off his jeans, but nothing else. Soon enough he was asleep, soothed by the TV's quiet murmur.


	3. Chapter 3

Michael woke to something chirping. What was that?

He became aware of his stiff fingers, squashed between his body and the couch pillows. He wiggled them to wake them up a bit and he cracked open an eye lid. Alright - he was in his apartment. Why was there a cricket in his apartment? He lived on the third floor for crying out loud.

That's when it clicked: His phone. His usual alarm was set to the tune of an AC/DC song, but the second one - his backup in case he didn't hear the first - was programmed to the chirp of crickets.

_Shit._ He'd slept in.

Wobbling, he threw himself up off the couch. His shirt twisted around his body and his boxers were sitting low on his hips. He knew he fell asleep on his couch way more often than any man should, but he preferred it to sleeping in his room. It was too lonely, and his bed was too big.

He finally made it to his phone and turned the alarm off. He also realised that he had exactly seventeen minutes until his first class started. There was no way he was going to make it.

The rest of the morning was cloudy. Michael managed to get together a not clean, but close to it, outfit. Before brushing his teeth and dragging a wet comb through his hair.

Of course he had to slam every red light, a small traffic jam and a train on the way to school. His car was the only one to hear the profanities that fell out his mouth.

By the time he arrived, first period had been in for almost half an hour. He practically ran through the halls, keeping an eye out for Mills - or even worse, Dean. Michael hadn't been late in years, and he knew he would not pass up the opportunity to gloat. He assumed Dean was hung up elsewhere, because Michael made it to class undetected.

He prepared himself, ready to walk into a classroom full of chaos. After this, he couldn't get anyone into trouble for being late for a good week or so. He pushed his door open, not bothering to think it strange that it was already closed.

"Okay, I'm running a little late but-" The rest of the sentence was sitting on his lips, his voice raised so it was heard across the noise of the classroom but he stopped when he was met with silence.

Everyone was sitting with their heads in their books, that was until they looked up at Michael, slightly astonished looks on their faces. At the front of the class stood Samantha Riggs, her bright eyes alight with surprise.

For a brief second, Michael thought he walked into the wrong room. Ignoring the fact that there was a picture of himself and his family on the desk sitting behind her, or that one of his jackets were draped over the back of the chair. Every student and the teacher were staring at him as if he was unexpected, he glanced behind him at the door, as if thinking about turning and walking back out of it.

"I'm sorry," Samantha spoke after a moment, "When you weren't here after about fifteen minutes, Principle Mills asked me to watch them for a bit. My class is working on something, it wasn't a problem."

It took Michael a second to realise that she was apologising. Her eyes were apologetic, probably misunderstanding Michael's silence for anger because she apparently took over his class.

The students' eyes bounced between the two.

"No, no it's cool." Michael shook his head a little. "It was totally my fault - I'm not usually late."

Samantha smiled sympathetically, though it looked like she didn't quite believe him. This sent irritation trickling up Michael's spine, but before he could say anything else, Samantha had turned away from him.

"We were just finishing off the latest chapter." She turned her eyes on Michael again. "I should get back to my class, since I'm no longer needed." She smiled at him again - Michael soon realised that her polite expression was just a mask. There was far too much emotion behind her eyes.

"Sure," Michael replied, "And thanks - I owe you one."

"I'll remember that." She gave him that smile again before disappearing through the door, closing it gently behind her. Michael let out a small breath, leaning on the podium at the front of the room. Looking over, he saw his students watching him with strange expressions.

"Mr Cohen, is that the same suit as Friday's?" Ava Wilson asked, and Michael looked down. He pulled at his jacket, inspecting the shirt underneath. His tie was red. Friday's had definitely been blue.

"No." He said proudly. "No it isn't."

He looked up at Ava, smiling widely but she just shook her head.

xXx

Looking back, Michael decided he had a pretty typical High School experience. He played for the school football team, wore an Eagles jacket in the halls, smoked cigarettes beneath the bleachers and he managed to have a pretty girl on his arm. His teenage years weren't exactly perfect - his home life saw to that - but it could have been a lot worse. He wasn't getting thrown into lockers or getting his head stuck down the toilets.

He found it odd that he'd thrown himself into a career that had him bound to school forever. This seemed even more prevalent when he walked into the teacher's lounge at lunch, looking around for his friends. Near the back, Garth waved at him, while Dean kept his head down, a tray of food sitting neglected at his elbow.

So Dean was pissed at him. This day was just getting better. Michael pulled out a chair and sat, Garth eyed him, his hands wrapping around a sandwich that looked way too big for him. "I was thrown off when I didn't find you surrounded by papers this morning." He smirked. "I missed your tax accountant look."

"Hilarious." Michael retorted, running a hand through his hair. "I slept through my alarm."

Dean looked up, noticing Michael's rumpled appearance. "Some of the guys downstairs think you've had a one night stand."

"Me?" Michael lifted his eyebrows. "A one night stand?"

"It's not that far-fetched." Garth said, muffled by the amount of sandwich he had just crammed into his mouth. "You're young, single. Kids have wild imaginations. Horny, wild imaginations."

Michael laughed. "I can't remember the last time I had a one night stand."

"Maybe that's your problem." Garth muttered, and Michael raised an eyebrow at him, biting his tongue around an offensive retort.

"Can't get laid if you don't come out." Dean's eyes slid back to the newspaper he was reading. Michael could take the cold shoulder from a lot of people, but it was different with Dean. Probably because he knew he wasn't easy to piss off.

"Dude, I'm sorry." Michael leaned onto the table, doing his best to replicate his younger brothers puppy-dog look. "I said I'd go and I dropped the ball - tell me what I can do."

Dean's eyes lifted to meet Michael's. "Alright, I'll tell you. You're coming out with us on Friday, and you're buying. Don't do us any favours, I want you to wanna hang out with us. Like the good old days."

"The good old days?" Michael repeated. "Dean, that was like, a few months ago."

Dean shrugged. "This is your last chance. Blow this, Cohen, and there's gonna be hell to pay. You got me?"

Michael glanced at Garth who was looking at him in an 'uh-oh, you're in trouble' kind of way, but Michael nodded.

"I got you."

Dean closed the newspaper, that's when Michael knew he was forgiven - even if only temporarily.

"Where's your lunch?" Dean questioned.

Michael blinked down at the empty table in front of him. "I dunno - I guess I didn't bring one?"

Dean shook his head and sighed quietly to himself.

"So how late were you? Mills was freaking out - something about an accident on the freeway."

"Passed it, it wasn't me though." Michael replied, "I got here a while after first bell."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Jeez. What did your kids do for all that time?"

Michael looked down, trying to hide is interest. "The new girl covered me - what's-her-name."

"Samantha?" Garth supplied, and Michael absolutely hated the shiver that accompanied those three syllables. "I've got a few kids who're taking her classes. They love her - can't get enough."

"I know what you mean. They were silent when I walked in." Michael narrowed his eyes, unable to stop himself. "I mean my kids are good, but they're not that good. There's no way they found Gatsby that interesting."

Dean fought with himself for a minute, before speaking up. "I got Charlie to do a little research-"

"Dean..." Garth warned, his voice was low and rather threatening.

"I couldn't help it." Dean said defensively, "Who decides they want to teach high school in Houston? Unless they're from here?"

Michael and Garth shared a look. Dean went on.

"Exactly. So I got Charlie to dig up some dirt on her."

"And what?" Garth asked.

"She's got nothing." Dean's eyes widened. "She got her diploma. Masters in History, then went on to study education. But that's it. No birth certificate, no criminal record, not even a transcript. It's like she appeared as soon as she enrolled at college."

"That's impossible." Michael leaned on the table in front of him. "How could she get into college without a high school transcript?"

"It ain't possible." Dean tilted his head. "So either she got into the system and deleted the records herself or she got someone else to do it for her."

"Hold up," Garth said, "This isn't hacking into someone's twitter account, this is official government records. How many people can do that?"

Dean huffed a laugh and shook his head. "Including Charlie? Three or four."

"Maybe you're getting ahead of yourself." Michael said, hoping to add some logic to the topic. "Maybe it's a glitch?"

"Hell of a glitch, man. To delete twenty-odd years of someone life?" Dean questioned. Neither of them had an answer. Michael watched him, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.

"You're not letting this go, are you?" He asked. Dean shook his head.

"Nah, she's a challenge. I like a challenge." Dean replied. Garth just groaned half-heartedly. Michael kept quiet after that. He knew it was best if he kept her as far away from him as possible. Especially since Dean was getting an expert hacker to unravel the mystery that was Samantha Riggs.


	4. Chapter 4

Of all the cities that were mapped out across the country, Samantha never thought she'd find herself in Houston. She liked the big cities best - they offered the anonymity of large crowds, and twenty-four hour cafés to appease her insomnia. She lived her life like a ghost: filtering between hoards of people on the street, only being seen when it was absolutely vital.

Houston was nice. A few good bakeries scattered here and there, some nice music stores. She'd even found a cheap motel just a few blocks from the school, this way she didn't have to risk driving into the depths of the city and getting caught in a mile long traffic jam, or even using the unreliable public transportation. She could just make her way there on foot. The closest coffee shop was a Starbucks, which Samantha grinned and bared, though she loathed their atrocious sizing system. Every time she had to clarify she wanted a grande instead of a large, she died a little bit inside.

And, of course, Texas wasn't too far from Tennessee. Though she'd been on the move for what seemed like forever, she had to stop somewhere. As hard as it was, this was the right choice. She was finally settling old debts, she knew this was all she could really hope for. She expected no real reward at all for this.

xXx

On Friday night, Michael faced facts and thought maybe, it was time he cleaned up around his apartment. It would be nice to be actually prepared for Monday, there were old assignments tucked away on shelves that he knew he could throw out. Figuring a lame-ass Friday night clean out was a good plan, he decided to celebrate with a beer and headed for the kitchen.

He hadn't even made it into the kitchen when his phone started vibrating on the counter. He picked it up, while checking the caller ID. He groaned quietly and swiped his this across the screen to answer.

"Hey, Dean." He propped himself up on the kitchen counter. No point in getting that beer now, he knew where this was going to end up.

"You're up, Cohen." Dean said, "Lace up your boots, I'm taking you off the bench."

"Sports metaphors?" Michael pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Hey, you used to play ball." Dean laughed. "Bottom line: we're going out. I started early, so I need a ride. We also gotta make a quick stop."

Michael sighed. "Alright then."

"Awesome. Can you be ready in ten?"

Michael looked down at himself. He had changed into a grey jumper and jeans - it's wasn't much - but it was about as dressed up as he was willing to get.

"I'll be ready. You better be outside or I'm driving away without you."

"Roger that."

Fifteen minutes later, Michael followed Dean into one of the smaller bookstores Houston had to offer, a small bell sounded as they entered. Dean made his way purposefully down the aisles, by-passing "fiction", "non-fiction", "sci-fi", heading straight for the section labelled "graphic novels."

"What are we doing here?" Michael scowled at the store. "I teach literature for a living, what makes you think I wanna be around books after hours? It's like taking a lighter to a bonfire."

"Totally not the same thing." Dean looked over his shoulder at him. "Charlie wants a bribe." Dean scanned the spine of the books, looking for a specific title. "You liked books at some point, go get re-acquainted."

Michael huffed a little bit, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked away from him. He was right, Michael liked a good book. Lots of books were completely lost with him though, he didn't understand Old English at all, he detested romance novels. But if he was given a few complicated characters and a plot line with some violence, then he was in. Although the need for reading had faded slightly over the years, he could do with getting back into it.

Without realising, Michael had made his way to the "classics" section. His eyes roamed the shelves, fingers reaching out to run over a few familiar titles, smiling as he did so.

Then, his fingers ran over an even more familiar title, and he stopped. He pulled the book out of its place, grinning at the familiar cover.

'_The Outsiders'_

He turned the book, reading the synopsis he had memorised since high school. He remembered reading it for the first time, how it really woke him up and introduced him to the beauty of literature.

He used to teach it to his senior students, but there was always a feel of disapproval when his students didn't get it like he did.

Maybe it was time for another shot.

"Nice choice." The soft voice seemed perfectly at home in the quiet store, but Michael still jumped when he heard it. His head snapped up, his eyes landing on Samantha, talking to Michael but facing the book shelves a few feet away.

"Yeah.." Michael looked down at the book, assembling his thoughts. "It's one of my favourite novels, actually. I used to teach it, but I don't think they really appreciated it."

"I know what you mean." Samantha smiled, somewhat timidly. It was different to her other smile; this one seemed more genuine. "Books are popular with kids when they're really short, or if they contain a considerable amount of swearing."

Michael laughed softly and pushed the book back into its place on the shelf. "I'm with you on that one. I swear that's why most kids like 'A Catcher in the Rye.' They like Holden, but they don't really care or get what the story is actually about."

Samantha turned to face him now, and it occurred to Michael that he'd never seen her out of school before. It was almost strange to see her in jeans and a t-shirt.

"Listen," She said, her eyebrows furrowing slightly, "I hope you didn't take offence the other day, when I took over your class. You seemed a little irritated."

Michael shook his head. "No, it's totally cool." Lifting his eyes to meet hers. "I slept late; I was half-asleep when I walked in. I was just happy I didn't have to split up any fights."

Samantha smiled again, her usual cool eyes swirling with warmth. Michael had spent a whole week working across from Samantha, but he'd never seen that smile before. And yet he'd coaxed two out of her in the space of ten minutes.

Just then, Dean appeared from around the corner.

"I thought you left-" He started, but his eyes widened when they landed on Samantha, "Oh. Hi!"

Samantha smiled at Dean, Michael proudly made a mental note that it wasn't the smile she had given him. "Hi, Dean."

"I gotta say, I'm surprised to see you here. I thought it was only locals who knew about this place."

"I was just looking around town." She replied. "I don't quite know where everything is yet."

Dean smiled back at her, but Michael could see the gears twisting behind his eyes. He crossed his arms over the book he was carrying, giving Samantha a quick up and down. Michael thought back to what Dean said at lunch the other day - about how Samantha was a mystery, how he was determined to solve it. Michael soon found himself wanting to get as far away from them as possible.

"Well, you're in luck." Dean continued. "Michael and I know the best bar in town - actually, we're headed there now - it's just down the street. You should join us."

"That's nice of you, but it's alright." Samantha's voice was nervous, her eyes were uncertain. "I don't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be intruding," Dean rolled his eyes at the word. "That's why we invited you. Come on, one drink - consider it an official Houston welcome."

Samantha glanced at Michael who was looking at the ground, but he soon lifted his head and smiled half-heartedly at her. He nodded.

"Yeah, okay..." Samantha looked at Dean. "One drink."

xXx

This was how, ten minutes later, Michael found himself at the back of Jo's bar, with Dean, Garth and Samantha. He thought this was horribly unfair. Convincing him to come out had been difficult enough before - and that was when he knew what he was getting into; when the night held nothing but another predictable night out with his friends. Now, nothing was predictable, because Samantha's knee was inches away from his under the table and Michael was trying not to watch the woman's fingers trace the rim of her wine glass.

The bar had already shot up ten degrees which caused Michael to subconsciously roll up the sleeves of his jumper.

Garth and Dean seemed to be oblivious to Michael's discomfort. He hung back in the conversation, deciding to listen as they talked about the odd collection of things they had in common. Samantha and Garth seemed to share the same taste in movies, whereas she and Dean shared the same type of music.

Michael realised Dean wasn't as oblivious as he originally thought, because when he challenged Garth to a game of pool, he glanced back and shot Michael a traitorous smirk.

He was going to kill him.

Michael sighed and gestured to the waitress to bring over another beer. Just like his father, Michael got rid of any unwelcome emotion with a healthy helping of alcohol. Self-medication was practically inherent in the family genes.

"You don't play then?" Samantha asked, nodding over to the billiards table. Michael followed her eyes to where Dean was chalking his pool cue.

"Oh, I do." Michael replied, a little boastfully. "Neither of them will play me anymore, though."

"Why's that?" Samantha turned her eyes on Dean, narrowing her eyes with curiosity.

"Because I always beat their asses, and they're sore losers." Michael's lip quirked up a little. The waitress walked over to the table and set his beer down, he took it from her, offering a small 'thanks'. The waitress smiled at him, the corner of her mouth turned up somewhat suggestively. Michael looked away. She was cute enough: Blonde, tight-fitting top, nice eyes. But Michael had long since outgrown trying to pick up girls in bars - especially girls who look like they've barely cleared the drinking age.

Samantha watched the exchange, but she remained quiet. The quiet stayed for a few moments and Michael realised that nothing about the silence was comfortable. At all. There was too much tension between them.

"I have to admit, Michael," Samantha said after a moment, "You don't strike me as a teacher. Let alone a Literature teacher."

"Why not - do I seem dumb to you?" Michael asked in a mock offence.

"No, not at all," Samantha said quickly. "It's just most people have a type. When I saw you, I would've guessed you were the P.E. Teacher, if it weren't for the suit."

"P.E.? Do I really look that douchey?" Michael asked, taking a swig of his beer.

"That's not what I meant, either." She grimaced, and Michael chuckled, sort of pleased that Samantha seemed to have trouble getting her words out.

"No, I get it." Michael said. "That was actually the plan, at first - teach Phys. Ed. It would kinda be like having recess all day. What's wrong with that?"

Samantha nodded and tilted her head slightly, "So, what made you change your mind?"

"I dunno..." Michael shrugged, twirling the bottle in his hand. "I'm already an asshole - I think adding 'P.E. Teacher' to the mix would've been the last straw."

Samantha's eyes softened, just a little bit. "I don't think you give yourself enough credit."

Michael pulled off his jumper to hide his reaction - he was never really good at receiving compliments.

"Your tattoos," Samantha said suddenly, looking at Michael's arm. "They're nice."

Michael watched as her eyes roamed over his upper left arm, he followed her gaze and raised his t-shirt sleeve up onto his shoulder. The colours were a little bit faded, but the tattoos were still there. There wasn't really a specific theme. He had the mermaid-sailor chick from his fathers favourite rum, on his shoulder he had his mothers favourite flower, Gabriel's birthday was on there in a vintage font, his grandfather's dog tags, and a Zeppelin. It was all pretty random, but the colour scheme was the same. So it tied together nicely.

"Yeah, I-" Michael smoothed his hand along his forearm. "I never thought I get 'em, to be completely honest. But hey - you do crazy things in college, right?"

"The detail is amazing. They must've been expensive?" She looked up at Michael now.

"Actually, I knew a girl who was apprenticing in a shop just off of campus. She practiced on me free - I was sort of her guinea pig. Lucky for me, she was crazy talented."

"Clearly." Samantha raised her eyebrows, glancing at his arm again. Michael was used to getting compliments on his tattoos, but Samantha was looking at him with the kind of appreciation only other tattooed people seem to have.

"So what about you?" Michael asked, taking a sip of beer. "Any tattoos?"

Samantha looked down, her cheeks blushing a faint pink. Michael's interest increased. "A few, not anywhere noticeable, obviously."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Tramp stamp?" He teased, and to his delight, Samantha laughed - an actual laugh. The grin lighting her face and her shoulders shaking made warmth pool in his stomach.

"No, nothing like that." Samantha shook her head, glancing up at Michael. "I try to keep them hidden, not a lot of people hire teachers with tattoos."

"I hear you." Michael agreed. "Still, you don't seem like the type of person who'd get herself inked up."

Samantha's brow furrowed a little bit, she tilted her head at Michael. "You seem to have a very specific idea of what kind of person I am."

Michael's jaw flexed. "Not really. I just have a habit of trying to read people."

"And are your assumptions usually correct?" It should have come out meanly, but for whatever reason, it didn't.

"Yeah, sometimes." Michael shrugged. "Hey, I'm not the only one making assumptions. You thought I was the P.E. Teacher."

Samantha laughed again. "True. But what was I supposed to think? You're young and you're attractive - I was going by stereotypes."

Michael looked up at her, his ears catching the word "attractive", Samantha seemed to notice because her head ducked and her eyes were on the table. Michael cocked an eyebrow, opening his mouth to - God help him - try and say something as equally as flirty back, when Dean and Garth appeared back at the table.

Garth suggested getting another round, Michael agreed, kind of thrilled when Samantha allowed herself to be talked into staying a bit longer.


	5. Chapter 5

The weekend ended up being a total bust. Going out on Friday was good, but once he was back in his apartment, surrounded with silence, the excitement soon turned to nausea.

On Friday, he had nightmares. Filled with memories of smoky bars and shady clubs. He experienced the unsettling experience where he thought he had woken up but he hadn't. In his dreams he'd pry open his eyes to find himself in a strangers bed with a banging headache, it seemed real until some impossible factor gave it away - like his father's corpse on the strangers bedroom floor.

Michael looked terrible on Saturday morning. He felt it, too. He managed to stumble his way to the kitchen to make coffee, but soon retreated back to his bedroom, slipping beneath his covers again. The coffee sat on the bedside table, forgotten.

He forgot to eat dinner. He tried to watch TV, but sat motionless in front of the screen while a football game flashed light into the dimly lit room. Pressed ignore every one of four times Gabriel tried to call him. Then proceeded to ignore the texts from Dean and Garth.

The nightmares returned Saturday night. He forced a bowl of cereal down his throat Sunday morning, only to throw it up fifteen minutes later.

He tried to convince himself he'd caught a bug or something, high schools were breeding grounds for the flu or common cold.

Sunday afternoon rolled around, so did Gabriel, pounding on Michael's apartment door, demanding he goes around to his mother's for another Sunday Dinner. Michael was close to slamming the door in Gabriel's face, but he told his mother he would come over more often.

Which is why he manned up and sat through yet another dinner with his Mom, brother and step-sister. This time he could hardly touch the food. When he pushed a piece of pie away from himself with only a bite or two taken, his mother eyed him suspiciously. Michael pretended not to notice.

xXx

Monday afternoon, Michael had tactfully avoided Dean and Garth, he found the tiny task of talking too much work. He also avoided Samantha out of pure necessity.

Michael couldn't even lie to himself anymore (which is saying quite a bit) - it would appear he had a crush on his coworker. This was problem for a number of reasons. One, Michael didn't do crushes. Crushes either lead to heartbreak or relationships, both equally terrifying. Two, teachers are not supposed to date each other, it is strictly frowned upon. And three, she was smart and beautiful and kind and could do a whole lot better than the damaged affections of Michael.

With all this rattling around in his head, Michael was pleased that his final class of the day were doing a test. This meant they were quiet, it also meant he didn't have to talk. He just had to pace the aisles, bleary-eyed and pale from the weekends trauma. If anyone noticed, they didn't say a word.

Michael passed Becky Rosen, eyeing the long paragraphs he was scribbling down, despite the fact the section was titled "short answer". He shook his head a little, glancing at the clock as he moved on. There were ten minutes of this period left, then Michael fully intended to haul his ass home, melt into his couch and avoid the world for a further eighteen hours.

Michael stopped walking when he got to Ben's desk, watching him furiously write down answers that would undoubtedly get him the highest mark in class. But he wasn't looking at the paper.

Ben's blazer was sitting on the back of his chair and he had rolled his shirt sleeves up. Though it only revealed a few inches of his forearm, Michael could see a few marks showing beneath fabric.

He froze. He was standing a few feet behind Ben, who hadn't seemed to notice him because he scratched his arm which only pulled his shirt sleeve up more.

There were bruises on Ben's arm. Perfectly mimicking the grip of a large hand. The colours wrapped around Ben's arm, looking painful and sore. Ben pulled the sleeve down and Michael swallowed thickly, the room shifted and Michael made his way to his desk, suddenly feeling like he was falling.

He didn't know what to do. His first thought was to call Ben into the hall and ask him what happened, but something stopped him from doing so. A cold fear crept up his back, shaking a little bit, he averted his eyes to his desk, not daring to make eye contact with Ben when he handed his paper in.

A little while after the last bell, Michael found himself almost running to the guidance counsellor's office at the other side of school, the thoughts of getting home had fallen out of his head. Luckily, the waiting room was empty and Michael poked his head around the side of the door.

"Hey, Hannah," his voice was shaky and uncertain, "Got a second?"

Hannah looked up, surprised to see Michael peeking in her door. He couldn't blame her, they'd spoken a couple of times at staff meetings but that was it. It was at this point Michael has realised he'd never actually been in her office before.

Hannah quickly covered up her surprise with a welcoming smile.

"Sure, Michael, come in." She said cheerfully, clearing some papers from her desk. Michael hesitated for a second, then stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He sat down in the chair opposite her.

"What can I do for you?" She leaned on the desk, arms crossed. Michael took a breath, trying to tame the uncomfortable feeling of being trapped. He pressed a hand to his forearm and squeezed, reassuring himself that there were no bruises on him.

"Um," Michael started, completely unsure of how to finish, "I was wondering... I mean I have a question. A hypothetical one."

Hannah looked confused, but her eyes were encouraging, in that signature high school counsellor way. "Okay, go ahead."

Michael nodded. "Alright. So say...say hypothetically I noticed something. Something that might give me the idea that one of my students was having a pretty rough time. It's none of my business - but should I talk to them about it anyway?"

Hannah frowned as she thought about Michael's barely coherent question, but she was used to mumbling since she was surrounded by teenagers. "It depends what you mean by "rough time". There are some things - like bullying - that we can't take action on unless the child comes to us first. I don't like it, but it's the system. Do you think one of your students is getting bullied?"

Michael thought about the bruises on Ben's arm and quickly shook his head.

"No, no."

"Then what is it?" Hannah's brow creased in concern.

Michael shrugged, "I don't know." He fell quiet for a minute, that cold sweat breaking out again. "What if I, hypothetically, got the kid to come talk to you? Would that help?"

Hannah nodded. "It couldn't hurt, I'm always happy to help."

"So if the kid told you they were having trouble at home, you could help him?" Michael pressed and Hannah took a breath, thinking it over.

"It depends on what kind of trouble. If the child's parents are going through separation or divorce, then we'd usually refer them to a family counselling session. Although, if we feel the students home environment isn't safe, we'll take other measures."

Michael swallowed thickly, his vision blurring slightly around the edges. "Other measures?"

"Well, we'd have to call Child Protection Services; follow out a proper investigation of their home. If there's a reason for them to be removed, they'd more than likely be rehomed."

"Rehomed?" Michael repeated. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"They'd be placed with their next of kin. Aunt, Uncle or maybe a Grandparent. If that's not possible, they're more than likely to be placed in foster care."

Michael nodded, although he knew all of this anyway. He just had to hear it from someone else. The verbal confirmation made him feel like he wasn't there at all, just hanging on a ledge, in danger of losing his grip completely.

"Michael," Hannah said quietly, "Do you think one of your students is having some trouble?"

A part of Michael wanted to say yes, but that was the same part of him that drooled over pie, the part of him that grinned at the hum of his car engine, the part that leaned into his mothers touch. But a larger, more dominant part of Michael - the part that refused to sleep without a nightmare, the part that he loathed - shook his head.

"No." He heard himself say. "No, I was just wondering...thanks, Hannah."

With that, Michael pushed himself out of his chair and walked quickly out of the room. Hannah just stared at him, her mouth slightly agape, worry pinching at the corners of her eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Michael managed to make it back to his classroom, despite the way his legs were shaking or how his blood was pounding in his ears. With shaking hands, he slammed the door and began to pace, his breath coming in short, startled gasps. He was able to suck air in, but he seemed unable to push it out, his muscles began to tighten in agony.

Michael pushed his fingers through his hair, linking them together behind his head, squeezing his eyes shut to try and get a grip. Get a grip on what? What was here for him to hold on to? There seemed to be nothing at all. There was nothing but temporary happiness and permanent pain - the kind of pain that comes back to bite you in the ass, regardless of the many times you've attempted to push it down with therapy, medication and false acceptance.

Trembling, Michael slid down the wall behind his desk. His fingers were still locked behind his neck, his head resting on his knees, trying to focus on breathing, but it wasn't working. The was a ringing in his ears, so loud he couldn't hear anything else. His muscles were on lockdown.

_If you would just man up and stay in line, I wouldn't have to do this! Now I have your teachers breathing down my neck about the bruises on your throat? You gotta learn to cover that up, what happens at home is our own damn business._

_You're just like your mother. Pathetic. Worthless. _

_This isn't how I raised you. God help me I tried – I tried to set things right, to make a man out of you._

Michael gripped his hair between his fingers and pulled, trying to pull himself back, but his vision was quickly blacking out. The ringing in his ears was screaming now, Michael couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing there, all he knew was that he had to get out.

Suddenly, a warm hand was pressed against his shoulder. His head snapped up and he jerked away from the touch, his hands flew up to block any attack that was certainly coming. He was confused when his vision cleared up a bit, registering a pair of alarmed hazel eyes and tensed jawline. There was a woman crouched in front of him, her lips were moving but Michael had no idea what they were saying. Michael was aware he knew this person, but he couldn't think of her name or where they'd met.

The woman held her hands up, and Michael blinked, trying with all he had to force the air back out of his lungs. Slowly, as he concentrated on those hazel eyes, the ringing in his ears began to quieten down.

"Michael?" The woman's voice, soft, gentle and soothing as hell, broke through the noise. "Michael. Breathe, alright? You're okay, it's okay."

Michael became aware that he was mumbling something repeatedly, but he couldn't quite make out what it was.

"Breathe, Michael. Just breathe." The woman said again. Michael didn't let his eyes stray from that stare, and with what felt like a backbreaking effort, he pushed the air back out of his lungs. The woman nodded, encouragingly.

"Good. That's good. Keep doing that." She said, reaching for Michael's shoulder again. Michael had to focus way too hard, but soon he had a steady rhythm; taking the air in through his nose, then pushing it back out his mouth, like a pregnant lady going into labour. Except that was real pain, Michael argued that he was just a child who couldn't go a few weeks without having a panic attack.

After a few moments, the blackness around the edges of Michael's vision faded away, the voices in his head and the ringing stopped, he blinked at the woman - Samantha - as he was left with nothing but his heart pounding against his chest.

Samantha seemed to have noticed that Michael had returned, because she dropped her hand from his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" She asked urgently, Michael's breath was far too quick, like he'd just sprinted a mile.

"Um, I don't think so?" He rasped out, the sentence coming out as a question. He hated admitting he wasn't okay, but this felt better.

"I think you just had a panic attack." Samantha said, her voice still soft and soothing. "Do you have those a lot?"

Michael sighed, shame swirling in his stomach. "Often enough."

"Do you have anyone I can call for you?" Samantha frowned, "Maybe Dean? Garth?"

Michael shook his head quickly, though the movement caused his stomach to flip. "No. No, it's fine. They'll only worry - I'm fine."

"Michael," Samantha sighed, "You're not fine. Panic attacks aren't anything to be ashamed of-"

"I know." Michael snapped, instantly regretting it, Samantha frowned. Michael let out an uneven breath, and he realised every muscle in his body was shaking and achy.

"I'll be fine." He insisted. "I just want to get home."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Samantha looked over her shoulder, as if looking for back up that wasn't there. She looked back at Michael. "Unless you live with someone?"

If Michael was in his right state of mind, he would have teased that the question came off as snooping about whether or not he was involved with somebody. As it was, though, Michael wasn't in his right mind, and the question was too logical for the situation. He shook his head and closed his eyes, exhaustion crashing down on him.

"No," He said roughly, "It's just me."

Samantha sighed, looking at Michael thoughtfully for a moment.

"I'm gonna take you home." She said. "And I'm staying with you until I'm sure you're alright."

She hooked a hand beneath Michael's arm and attempted to help him up.

"Woah," Michael muttered groggily, "At least take me to dinner first."

"Very funny." Samantha deadpanned. Michael allowed himself to be dragged to his feet, but he gently pulled away from Samantha when he was there. Trying to hold on to the little dignity he had left.

"I got it." He said, but when he turned to walk out the door, a wave of nausea hit him. He managed to grab the trash can beside his desk and pull it towards him just in time, before spewing the pitiful contents of his stomach into it.

So much for dignity.

Michael straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Samantha looked at him with an alarmed expression.

"Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital? You're obviously not well."

Michael bit back a witty retort and got to his feet again, only answering when he was sure he wasn't going to throw up.

"I'm fine, I told you... Will you drop it if I let you take me home?"

"I'm taking you home regardless." Samantha replied sternly. "There's no 'letting' involved."

Michael rolled his eyes at her.

Under other circumstances, Michael would've complained about Samantha driving his car. But he didn't have the energy: he spent the journey with his head resting against the cool glass of the car's passenger side window, mumbling directions when Samantha asked for them.

Michael sighed as he opened the door to his apartment. "Home safe and sound. Pleased?"

Samantha shot him a dubious look and closed the door behind her, glancing around the apartment. "Not yet. You still look terrible."

Michael collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and rested his elbows on it. "Yeah, well. I'll live."

"You should have something sweet. It'll pick you blood-sugar levels back up." Samantha glanced at the fridge. "Can I?"

"Knock yourself out." Michael said tiredly. "I don't think I've got anything but beer in there."

Samantha walked over to fridge anyway and opened the door. Michael closed his eyes, knowing that she was right. He felt weak and unstable, undoubtedly because of a drop in his blood-sugar levels, that was Panic Attack 101. He felt like he'd just gone ten rounds with a baseball bat, and like he hadn't slept in weeks.

There was a dull thud and Michael opened his eyes to see a glass of orange juice in front of him. He looked up at Samantha, slightly surprised.

"I had this?"

"Yeah." Samantha smiled and nodded, taking a seat opposite Michael. "Please drink it."

Michael cocked an eyebrow, but grabbed the glass anyway and took a tentative sip. He didn't trust his stomach, but once the liquid hit the back of his throat, he wanted more. He managed to take three large gulps before placing the glass back on the table.

"Thank you." Samantha said, her voice coming out a soft whisper. Things were quiet for a moment, and then Samantha asked softly, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Michael inhaled and shook his head. "Not really, no."

Luckily, Samantha took this without question. She only nodded.

"But..." Michael continued, "Thanks for talking me down. And driving me home. Gabe's got enough on his plate, it would've killed me to worry him."

"Don't mention it, really." Samantha's voice was heartfelt, and Michael allowed himself to look up into her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, "Gabe?"

Michael realised how little they knew about each other, which seemed odd, somehow. "He's my brother." Michael explained, Samantha nodded.

Michael picked up the glass again and took a sip. Something was bothering him, and he'd do anything not to have to ask, but he had to know. "Listen, Sammy, when I was... out of it... did I say anything? I feel like I did, but I can't remember."

Samantha's eyes hardened, but she looked at Michael levelly. "Uh, yeah. I couldn't quite make it out at first, but you kept repeating 'get me out'. That's it."

Michael swallowed thickly and averted his gaze to the table. "Okay. Thanks."

Samantha put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. "Feel better?"

"Yeah, thanks." Michael nodded. "You seem good at this."

"At what?" Samantha squinted curiously. Michael shrugged his shoulders.

"Not freaking out when people lose it. The whole care-taking thing."

"I guess part of it comes naturally." She replied. For some reason, her eyes looked sad. "But I've had plenty of practice."

Michael thought about asking her what she meant, but he decided against it.

"Sammy, D'you, uh...do you think we could keep this between us? It's happened before, I don't want to worry anyone. It's not a big deal."

Samantha just looked at him for a moment, before she swallowed and nodded.

"Yeah, of course. If that's what you think is best, Michael."

Michael felt a great warmth pool in his stomach, because he was pretty certain that was the first time in his life anyone had said that to him.

xXx

Samantha liked to stick around after school. If she could finish a good amount of marking now, it meant she wouldn't have to take it home. That's what she had done for her first week, but balancing stacks of paper for a four-block walk got old fast.

Plus, there was the fact that she wasn't exactly in a hurry to get back to her motel. She'd been in Houston for a few weeks now, and she supposed she should start looking for an actual place to live. She had the money, and there was a realtor's card burning a hole in her purse, but there was something holding her back. She just wasn't sure what it was. Her motel room was quiet and stuffy. She liked her classroom, because she could spread papers out on the desk and get lost in noises of the school.

It was distracting, and she needed a distraction. Why? Because when every time she let her mind wander, it would undoubtedly settle on greeny-blue eyes and dark brown hair. Her students papers on the Cold War were much safer to get lost in.

She was running through a student's paper when the door to the classroom opposite her's slammed shut with a loud bang.

Michael's classroom.

Samantha put the paper down, slipping the cap back on her pen before placing it back on her desk, listening. She'd worked with Michael long enough to know he didn't go around slamming doors. Michael from what Samantha could see, was a very good teacher. The voice that would float through the open doors was always even and encouraging, Samantha saw that Michael's students treated him with respect. He was a "cool" teacher. He was the kind of teacher that his students went to for condoms or other personal problems, never fearing that Michael would rat them out. Samantha respected him for that.

So the slammed door, was slightly unnerving. She sat quietly, trying to listen for any movement, also wondering why the hell she cared so much. The silence eventually got too much and Samantha stood from her desk, heading out to the hall, before even bothering to ask herself what she might find.

There were no windows on the doors at the school - just tall, solid oak. Samantha tapped her knuckles on the door three times, and waited for a reply.

There was nothing. Frowning, Samantha leaned towards the door, her ears straining to detect any odd or unusual movement.

"Michael?" She called, assuming they were friendly enough to be on a first-name basis.

She told herself to go back to her classroom, Michael was probably fine, accidentally closed the door harder than he should've. But still, goosebumps were rising on Samantha's skin, and she could just feel the vibe of wrong coming through the door.

She rested her hand on the door handle, hesitating for a moment before turning it and pushing into the room.

Michael was curled into a ball behind his desk, his forehead pressed against his knees and his hands locked behind his neck. Samantha knew the position well - she'd seen it a number of times, on the low-level dealers and bookies her fucked-up family had decided weren't worth the trouble anymore.

It was the position of someone who was certain they were within inches of their dying breath.

She rushed over to Michael and crouched in front of him. He was shaking slightly, his knuckles were white as they gripped his hair, he was mumbling something that Samantha couldn't quite make out.

"Michael?" Samantha hated how scared her voice sounded.

Michael kept repeating himself and Samantha was finally able to make out the words:

_Get me out, get me out, please get me out, I need to get out of here..._

Eyes widening, Samantha reached out to put a hand on Michael's shoulder.

Michael jumped as if Samantha had shocked him. His head shot up and he looked around, his eyes were wild and scared. His hands flew up, ready to defend himself.

Samantha held her own hands up, hoping to show that she had no intention of hurting him. A pain shot it's way through her chest as she thought about why Michael would think she would want to do so.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Samantha tried her hardest to push the fear out of her voice. "Are you alright? Can you hear me?"

Michael just blinked at her, as if he'd never seen Samantha before in his life. His breath was ragged and uneven, each inhale rattling, and he couldn't seem to manage an exhale. Michael was pale, every inch of him shaking, and Samantha tried to remember the first aid treatment for shock.

"Michael?" Samantha said, more stern this time, "Michael, breathe, alright? It's okay, you're okay."

Michael just kept repeating those words.

"Breathe, Michael. Just breathe." Samantha was almost begging. With great effort, Michael pushed a breath out of his lungs. Samantha nodded, relief making her dizzy.

"Good. Just keep doing that." She said. She waited patiently, reaching her hand out again to rest it on Michael's shoulder. This time, Michael relaxed a little bit under her touch, his eyes fixed on hers as he forced out another breath. After a few minutes, the panic in his vision cleared and his breathing began to even out.

"Are you alright?" Samantha questioned, now that it seemed like she might get an answer.

"Um... I don't think so?" Michael asked, almost like Samantha knew better than he did. Samantha frowned.

"I think you just had a panic attack." She said cautiously. "Do you have those a lot?"

Michael nodded. "Often enough."

"Do you have anyone I can call? Dean, maybe? Garth?"

Michael didn't seem to like this suggestion at all; he shook his head forcefully. "No. No, it's fine. They'll only worry - I'm fine."

"Michael," Samantha sighed, "You're not fine. Panic attacks aren't anything to be ashamed of-"

"I know." Dean snapped, and Samantha tried not to take it personally. "I'll be fine. I just want to go home."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Samantha glanced back over her shoulder. The door was still sitting ajar, but no one was passing by. She was certain Dean or Garth would've arrived by now, but they'd probably gone home. She looked back at Michael. "Unless you live with someone?"

"No, it's just me." Michael replied.

Sammy let out a shaky breath, and one tiny, pitiful part of her brain quietly rejoiced that Michael didn't live with anyone - crushes were so much harder to get over when said crush was with someone else. But the larger more mature part of her brain was quietly cursing because he didn't have anyone to look after him in such a bad state.

"I'll take you home." Samantha said. "But I'm staying with you until I'm sure you're okay."

Samantha tried to haul Michael to his feet, but he was too heavy for her to lift alone. Michael wasn't particularly big - in fact, Samantha made the assumption that he should probably have more muscle and fat on his body than he did - but that still didn't mean she could lift him.

Thankfully, Michael was able to carry most of his own weight. "Whoa," He muttered, "At least take me to dinner first."

"Very funny." Samantha said flatly, though she was secretly relieved that Michael was joking again. She didn't know Michael that well, yet it still seemed more like him - more like Michael than the shaking, hyperventilating mess she had found.

"I got it." Michael pushed Samantha away half-heartedly, before leaning over and promptly being sick in his classrooms trash can.

"Michael," Samantha's eyebrows knitted together in concern, "are you sure you don't have to go to the hospital? You're obviously not well."

Michael braced himself on his knees, his face pale and shining with sickly sweat. "I'm fine, I told you... Will you drop it if I let you take me home?"

"I'm taking you home regardless." Sammy couldn't help the authoritative tone in her voice. "There's no 'letting' involved."

Michael rolled his eyes but in the end, he succumbed.

He relented into Sammy walking him out the classroom and driving his car all the way to his apartment building. He had allowed her to follow him into his apartment and pour him juice, and then he let Sammy sit down on the chair across from him.

It didn't seem like much, but Samantha had the distinct feeling that Michael letting her do all those things wasn't a small deal. She was certain it wasn't actually anything to do with her though - Michael was on the edge of some sort of mental break, he probably wasn't even aware of what was actually going on around him.

Still, Sammy watched with satisfaction as Michael sipped from the glass! the colour slowly returning to his cheeks.

"Feel better?" She asked hopefully. Michael's eyes flicked up to hers, but they didn't rest there long.

"Yeah, thanks. You seem good at this."

"At what?"

"Not freaking out when people lose it. The whole care-taking thing."

Suddenly, a long-repressed voice filled Samantha's head. Y_ou've got too much heart, Samantha. In this life, it'll kill ya._

"I guess part of it comes naturally." She pushed the thought away. Instead her mind flicked to long days during winter; midnight runs for medicine, a small girl curled into her side, feverish and coughing, while they marathoned Disney movies. "But I've had plenty of practice."

Michael looked slightly confused about the statement, but he didn't ask anything of it.

"Sammy," He said instead, "do you think... do you think we could keep this between us? It's happened before, I don't want to worry anyone. It's not a big deal."

Samantha studied Michael for a moment. Sure, he'd had panic attacks before, but the one in the classroom seemed intense. And the words Michael had repeated over and over, his voice distant and pained... Sammy still shivered when she thought about it. But Michael was looking at her with pleading eyes and she felt herself cave.

"Yeah, of course. If that's what you think is best, Michael."

After a moment of studying Samantha's expression to see if she actually meant it, Michael nodded.

Samantha left about twenty minutes later. She made sure Michael was alright; tried again to convince him to call his brother or his mother, but Michael wasn't having any of it. She left him at the table with a pile of unmarked papers in front of him. The colour had returned to his cheeks and his eyes were bright again, even though his hands were still shaking.

Samantha had scribbled her cellphone number on a piece of paper and stuck it to the fridge, just in case. Sometimes it was easier to talk to someone who wasn't family. She reminded Michael she was there if he needed help or to talk and Michael muttered a shy thanks before diving into papers. Samantha excused herself and left.

To her delight, Michael's apartment was only a fifteen minute walk from her motel. It was dark by that time, and the crisp late-October air was nipping at her skin. Samantha just pulled her jacket tighter around her before taking out her phone, navigating her way to the most used contact in it.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

The voice on the other end was bright and warm, Samantha felt her body relax instantly.

"Mommy!"

"Hey, princess." Samantha could hear the smile in her voice. She stuffed a hand in her pocket, jingling her keys while she walked. "I miss you, too. What did you do today?"

Samantha laughed at the chirping voice coming through the phone. Her chest still felt a little bit tight, the memory of Michael crumbling was still sitting in her head. But that little voice kept her feet firmly on the ground.


	7. Chapter 7

Michael woke at four o'clock in the morning, he knew he wasn't going to make it to work. He was laying on his couch with no recollection of how he ended up there. The last thing he remembered was grading papers, then he shut off. Yet there he was, a thin blanket covering him while re-runs of a 70's sitcom played quietly in the background.

He couldn't remember anything after nine from the night before, and he was trying not to think about how unnerving that was.

Slowly, he lifted his head from under the blanket. It was still dark outside and the building opposite his still had all the lights off.

He felt awful. His head was throbbing and his muscles were so stiff he could barely move. Subconsciously he stroked his hand down his arm, checking for bruises. There was nothing.

But, there was a heavy weight on his chest, causing each inhale and each exhale to be a painful chore. The thought of leaving his warm, cocooning blanket scared him slightly.

He wasn't going to make it to school. His students or his co-workers couldn't see him like this.

Though it nearly made him throw up, Michael got himself into a sitting position, reaching forward to grab his phone from where it sat on the coffee table. He proceeded to find the School's number in his contacts and dialled, not surprised when he got the machine.

He had to clear his throat a few times before any actual words came out, informing the receptionist that he was sick (He'd opted for "food poisoning" instead of "psychotic breakdown") and that she should get a substitute to cover his class.

Michael had only taken personal days or sick days twice: When Kali miscarried the first time, and his fathers funeral. Michael didn't like taking time off work, work was good for him. Routines and schedules, forced interaction; these were all healthy things, and they kept Michael's demons at bay for a certain amount of time.

Missing work instead of throwing himself into it was definitely a bad sign.

Michael didn't have the energy to care. He threw his phone back onto the table and dragged a hand down his face, taking a brief look around his apartment.

That's when he saw the mess. The papers that were neatly stacked on his table were scattered across the floor, the pen he'd been using had been snapped in half and was sitting under the chair. Posters that hung on his walls were ripped down, the corners torn and still stuck on the wall. One picture in particular - a framed photograph of Michael and his family - was lying on the ground, the glass shattered.

Michael felt a shiver run down his spine. He looked around at the mess and frowned. He knew this wasn't good; he hadn't blacked out in a long time, and even then, he wouldn't break things.

He packed the thought away and decided to reopen it when he had the mental capacity to do so. He gave his trashed apartment one last glance before curling back into the couch, pulling the blanket above his head.

xXx

The first thing Samantha did when she arrived on campus was look around the parking lot. She frowned when she realised Michael's navy-blue muscle car was absent. She immediately felt uneasy.

After her first period class ended, one of her students, Meg Masters, approached her desk.

"Miss. Riggs?" She asked, and Samantha glanced up, pushing her reading glasses a little further up her nose.

"What can I do for you?" She asked kindly, Meg shifted uncomfortably.

"I was wondering if you knew where Mr. Cohen is today?" She asked.

"No, I couldn't tell you." Samantha tilted her head slightly. "Why would you assume I'd know?"

Meg shrugged, her eyes shifting from Samantha's gaze. "I've seen you talking in the hall, I thought you were friends."

Samantha swallowed, trying to ignore the hopeful warmth in her stomach. "Does Mr. Cohen miss class often?" She asked. Meg shook her head.

"No. Not really."

Samantha's body tensed and she gave a quick nod. "He's probably just got a cold - I hear it's going around."

Meg nodded, clearly unconvinced, but she plastered a tight smile on her face anyway. "Yeah. You're probably right..."

Throughout her afternoon classes, Samantha could barely concentrate. She couldn't help but worry about Michael. She had heard Dean and Garth talking in hushed voices in the teachers lounge at lunch. Dean was fretting over how Michael didn't answer his texts or calls, and how he'd hardly ever miss work.

He was obviously worried, and Samantha thought about telling him about what had happened, but she'd promised Michael she wouldn't breathe a word to anyone.

She tried to put herself in his shoes. Thinking about if she had a mental breakdown and a co-worker found her, then having to go on and face that co-worker every day after that... It was cringe-worthy. And then to bring people in on that, so Michael would have to face not only her but Dean and Garth as well? It would only make things worse.

But she couldn't just do nothing.

xXx

Michael woke just after three o'clock when his stomach let out a vicious growl. He assumed it was hunger - the last time he recalled eating was at lunch, yesterday - but it felt like nausea. He went through the list of food he knew he had in the house but nothing really appealed to him. He sighed and turned his face into the couch. He had slept for about ten hours, but he still felt exhausted.

Sleep was beginning to take him again before someone started pounding on his door.

"Michael!" Gabriel's voice yelled through the closed door, Michael's eyes snapped open. "Open up! I know you're in there."

Michael's body, and mind, screamed in protest when he abandoned his spot on the couch. He walked around the torn posters and smashed pictures on the ground, the pressure in his chest increasing as he was going to have to explain himself.

"Michael!" The pounding continued, causing the door to rattle in its frame.

"I'm coming, hold on." Michael groaned, his hands fumbling to open the bolt on the door and slide the chain out of its place. "You'd think someone called a bomb threat."

He pulled open the door just enough to lean on the door frame, regarding his younger brother with a sleepy expression. Gabriel's face immediately relaxed, but his hazel eyes were still light.

"What's going on?" Gabriel questioned. "You weren't at school today."

"What is this? Junior high?" Michael raised an eyebrow at him, squinting at the bright light in the hallway. Gabriel swallowed, taking in Michael's ruffled pyjama pants and the still half-closed door.

"You look like shit." Gabriel said plainly.

"I'd look better if you'd let me get my beauty rest. Which you rudely interrupted, by the way."

"It's three o'clock in the afternoon."

"So?"

Gabriel shot Michael a glare, which soon faded when his eyes fell to Michael's hand resting protectively on the door handle.

"Can I at least come in?" He asked, Michael's jaw tensed, thinking of the mess that sat behind him. Even if he had said no, Gabriel would've forced entry anyway. He was small, but he was pretty damn strong.

Mentally preparing himself, Michael stepped back and opened the door. Gabriel let out a breath as he walked in, only to sharply inhale when he saw the mess inside.

"What the hell?" He asked as he shut he door. "Were you robbed?"

"If I was they did a shitty job of it." Michael ran a hand through his unwashed hair, causing it to stick up at odd angles. "They didn't take my TV and the good silverware is still in the drawer."

Gabriel frowned and stepped around the papers. Michael watched as his eyes fell on the shattered photograph.

"This was you, wasn't it?" He asked quietly, not daring to look at his older brother. Michael leaned against the kitchen counter and folded his arms, standing was just too much work.

"I can't remember." Michael admitted. "But probably."

"So you have a panic attack, then black out, then you don't even think to call me? I could have helped you, Michael."

"How did you find out about that?" Michael demanded, even though he knew damn well who told him.

"That new teacher called me - Samantha, or whatever." Gabriel replied, and Michael felt hot anger run through his system when his suspicions were confirmed. Of course Sammy told him. It's not like he and Gabriel have some sort of sibling telepathy thing going on. "She said she found you after school."

Michael pushed away from the counter forcefully, moving back on to the couch. "Son of a bitch." He muttered, "I'm gonna kill her."

Gabriel followed closely at his big brother's heels. "Don't get mad at her, she was only trying to help. She sounded pretty shaken up about it, man."

"Yeah, well, you try and find out you work next door to a psychopath." Michael grumbled, sitting on the couch and resting his head in his hands. "You'd be shaken up too."

"You're not a psychopath, you're just...having a rough time."

Michael huffed a laugh and gestured to the mess around him. "You call this a rough time?"

"Basically, yeah." Gabriel shrugged. "You've been holding it in for way too long. Maybe now you can get help."

"I don't need help!" Michael growled, though he knew he was lying. He ran his hands through his hair again, avoiding Gabriel's gaze. "I needed a day off, which I got. I'll be back tomorrow, it'll all be normal again. Alright?"

"No." Gabriel crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest.

Michael looked up. "What do you want me to do about it, Gabriel?"

Gabriel hesitated for a moment, pursing his lips as he studied his brother. Michael only looked back. Gabriel looked way older than twenty-four, his hair was getting a little bit longer and there was a light stubble beginning to creep across his jaw.

"Look," Gabriel started, "Maybe you should give Dr. Novak a call? He helped last time."

"Go back to therapy?" Michael's eyebrows shot up. "No. No fucking way."

"It's not a big deal, everyone needs help sometimes.." Gabriel pressed.

"I can help myself, thanks."

"No offence, but I beg to differ." Gabriel glanced at the broken picture on the floor and Michael scowled at him. "I'm not pushing anything on you, but I think it would be a good idea. Think about it?"

Michael narrowed his eyes, usually it was him lecturing Gabriel like a disappointed parent. When had the roles been reversed?

"I need to shower." Michael pushed past Gabriel towards his room. "Then I'm gonna sleep for another thirteen hours before I drag my ass to work tomorrow. That's what I'm thinking about."

The bedroom door slammed shut behind him and Gabriel let out a long breath when he heard the shower water turn on.

When Michael emerged twenty minutes later, the papers were re-arranged on his desk and the glass was swept off the floor, but his younger brother was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Michael purposefully arrived at his class seconds before the first bell. This way, he didn't have to face Dean, Garth or Samantha before he had the chance to actually wake up. It would be best to get a few hours of class on his back first, so he could warm up to talking to people and being in public.

It wasn't that easy to do. He looked like crap; he knew it, his students knew it too, he'd catch more than a few of them casting him sidelong glances. The reflection in the staff bathroom mirror wasn't too great either. It revealed dark circles under his eyes and his face looked a little pale. Michael looked away.

During his free period, he sat at his desk, slowly going through the attendance lists of his first couple of classes, checking off the kids who hadn't been there. He didn't blame them, he considered the possibility that they were out of school for the same reasons he was. Then his mind flashed to Ben and the bruises that covered his arms. For a minute, Michael had to fight the urge to throw up.

Luckily his thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. He frowned to himself. The knock was too calm to be Garth, and too soft to be Dean. It might have been Principle Mills, seeking a better explanation for his absence. Michael opened the door, the polite smile on his face slipping.

Samantha Riggs was stood outside his door, a coffee in each hand. Michael looked at her, surprise and shame colouring his face.

Samantha's smile was timid. "You weren't in the teacher's lounge this morning. I figured you could use some coffee."

Michael knew, in the back of his mind, that he should be mad at her for telling Gabriel. But he could smell the coffee, and Samantha looked disgustingly beautiful in her dress and her coat, while her dark hair was drizzled with October rain, Michael felt the anger leak out of him.

"Yeah, coffee sounds great." He said, his voice was still rasped and worn. He stepped back and gestured for Samantha to come in. When she moved past him, Michael breathed in the faint smell of apples and cinnamon, his stomach melted pathetically.

Michael sat behind his desk at the front of the room, Samantha took a seat on a desk opposite him.

"So," Michael accepted one of the drinks from her, "Is this some kind of peace offering?"

Samantha looked at Michael and smiled sheepishly. "I know I said I wouldn't tell anyone and I did, I just want you to know I'm really sorry."

Suddenly, Michael realised he wasn't that angry anymore. The woman looked so apologetic, and Michael knew Gabriel would find out one way or another.

"Don't worry about it. If you were gonna tell anyone, I'm glad it was my brother."

Samantha stared at the lid on her cup. "I thought he'd be a better choice than Dean."

Michael laughed softly, feeling his muscles relax as he did. "You got that right."

Michael took a sip of coffee, letting the warm liquid pool in his stomach, relaxing him even more. He closed his eyes and sighed. Samantha looked up at him.

"I wasn't sure how you take your coffee." Samantha said, her voice still remorseful. "But I kinda guessed you prefer it with cream and sugar."

Michael opened his eyes, surprising himself when a small smile twitched at his lips. "Yeah, that's right, thanks. The coffee from the teachers lounge is like drinking tar sometimes."

Samantha smiled at him, watching Michael's shoulders relax she finally thought she was forgiven. Although, her voice was still curious when she asked, "Are you feeling any better?"

Michael's first instinct was to brush her off with sarcasm or a witty insult, but he didn't.

"Not really." He admitted. "But I'll get there. Thanks again, I mean it."

Samantha inspected Michael's face, a small smile pulling at her lips. Michael remembered when the smiles he saw from Samantha were forced out of her, but now her face was soft and open. It forced a sense of calm over Michael that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"You're welcome, Michael." Samantha said. The two sipped at their coffees in silence, Michael realised that this silence was more comfortable than usual.

"Oh, I nearly forgot - I have something for you." Samantha set her coffee down and reached into her handbag. She pulled out a book and Michael stiffened slightly, half expecting it to be titled something like _Panic Attacks for Dummies._

"I found this little book store in Dallas." She explained, placing the book on the desk and sliding it forward. "I thought you would appreciate it more than I do."

Michael's eyes widened when they landed on the cover, he put his coffee down before picking the book up carefully. The edges on the cover were a little bit frayed and the spine was cracked, but it only made him like it more. He ran his fingers over the original cover art and a small smile pulled at his lips.

"You have a first edition of _The Outsiders_?" Michael asked, Samantha smiled at him.

"You do now." She replied. "Like I said, you'll appreciate more than I would. All I do is hoard stuff."

Michael laughed quietly, a bemused feeling in his chest. "I can't take this from you, Sammy."

"You can." Samantha insisted. "Consider it a gift. I have too many books anyway."

Michael looked at Samantha, but her eyes were certain. He wasn't sure if it was the coffee, or the book in his hand, or the woman in front of him, but Michael had this warm feeling rush over him.

Later that night, Michael never bothered to switch on a football game he wouldn't watch, he settled on the couch and opened the book.

xXx

"Masters is handing back your _Great Gatsby_ exams, if you wanna bitch about your grade see me after class." Michael rolled up the sleeves on his dress shirt and turned to the board, removing the writing from his previous class. "Moving on."

He grabbed a piece of chalk and scrawled the words _The Outsiders _on the board. When he turned around, Becky Rosen's hand was _pointed_ at the ceiling.

"What is it, Becky?"

"The syllabus says we're supposed to be reading _A Catcher in the Rye_ next."

"Where the hell did you get a class syllabus?" Michael frowned, a few students chuckled.

"It's on your school webpage."

"My what?" Michael shook his head, before addressing the class again, "Change of plans, anyway. We're reading _The Outsiders_ instead."

"Why?" Becky asked.

"Because I said so." Michael wiped the chalk off his hands and walked to the box sitting behind his desk. "Plus, this book is badass American fiction. Which is what this class is about."

He lifted the box onto his desk and opened it. "Ben, help me hand these out."

Ben looked a little startled by being addressed directly, but did as he was told. Michael handed him a pile of books, offering a reassuring smile with it.

When Michael climbed into the driver's seat of his car after school, he realised he hadn't felt nearly as tired as he did this morning. It was strange, but he wasn't going to dwell on it. Maybe his panic attack was just a bump in the road, and he'd be okay after all.

He turned the key in the ignition and smiled when his car purred to life. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for his apartment, he spotted Samantha walking down the street in the opposite direction.

For a minute, he contemplated stopping and offering her a ride home, wherever home was. But when he looked closer, he saw that Samantha seemed to be talking on her cellphone, a huge smile on her face. So Michael decided to leave well enough alone.

With swirling disappointment, Michael thought about how Samantha could've been talking to a significant other. As far as he knew, Samantha wasn't married, but that didn't mean she wasn't seeing anyone.

That shouldn't have bummed Michael out as much as it did, but the smile was so bright and wide. Only someone special would've caused it.

When he got to his apartment, his good mood had faded slightly. He knew if he answered to his couch's soothing calls, he wouldn't get up until tomorrow. And as tempting as that was, it would probably just bring on another low-point.

That's when he remembered he still had the boxes of his father's things in the trunk of his car. He thought he should probably rummage through them, try and find anything worth keeping. But the mere thought of that brought the feeling of nausea up from the pit of his stomach.

Grabbing his keys off the table, he got into his car again and drove to his mom's.

"Michael," Susan didn't bother to hide her surprise when she opened the door. "Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

"Nothin'," Michael said, slightly ashamed that he visited so little that it alarmed his mother when he did. "I've got those boxes of Dad's in my car..."

"Oh." Susan's face softened, and she leaned against the doorframe. "I thought you wanted to go through them?"

"No." Michael said, his jaw flexing. "I mean, it's cool. I don't really have room for more stuff. Do you think I could keep them here?"

Susan searched her son's face for a moment, her brows knitting together. "Sure, there's room in the garage...I'll go open the door for you."

The boxes felt heavier than they probably were. So he made it a quick job, picking them up roughly before dumping them in a corner of his mothers darkened garage. Even though his father had moved out when Michael was a kid, it was still littered with his tools and auto parts. It smelled like dust and grease and old beer bottles.

Michael's hair stood on end by the time he was done. He closed the door and retreated back into the house, shuddering slightly, as if trying to shake the smell off of him. He leaned down to smell his jacket, but there was nothing.

He found his mother sitting at the dining table, sifting through a pile of photographs from her latest customer. Michael spotted a couple on a dark green lawn, a ridiculously chubby baby in the woman's arms.

"I just put them in the back corner beside his tools." He said, gesturing over his shoulder to the garage. "I'll go through them when I clear some space..."

Susan looked up, a sad smile on her face. "Take your time, they're not bothering anyone here."

Michael swallowed and his throat felt tight. He just nodded. Susan was still watching him, placing the picture on the table.

"Michael..." She said, her eyes narrowing with worry, "You don't look too good. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I had a few bad nights, it's catching up on me."

Susan pursed her lips, but her eyes were still worried. She didn't buy a single word, Michael could tell.

"Stay for dinner tonight. I'll make one of your favourites."

As she said it, Michael's stomach twitched with interest. But he sighed and shook his head.

"Nah, I got some papers to grade."

"Are you sure you're eating enough? I know you get very busy, sometimes you don't remember."

"I don't forget to eat, mom." Michael insisted, hoping she would drop it. He felt like a twelve-year old. "I'll grab some take out on the way home, pack in the cholesterol. Promise."

Susan smiled tightly and nodded, though her eyes were still light with worry.

"They from your latest job?" Michael asked, moving away from the subject. Susan looked down at the photos and nodded.

"Yeah," Her eyes met with Michael's again, "They turned out pretty well, in my opinion."

She picked up a picture and held it out to Michael. It showed the man of the couple holding the baby on his shoulders, a wide smile on his face.

"The look great, mom." Michael smiled at her.

"Of course, it helps when you have a picture-perfect couple and a chubby baby as your models." She laughed quietly and put the picture back down.

"Yeah. It kinda looks like a Home Depot ad. It's great." Michael agreed, admiring the pictures on the table.

"I always imagined you and Gabriel with families like this." Susan said softly, a few fingers running over the glossy texture. Michael swallowed thickly.

"You could still be a Grandma. Kali isn't one to give up."

"She's a fighter." Susan agreed fondly. "But it's not just the baby. It's being happy, finding your other half; sappy things like that...it's what every mom wants, I suppose."

Michael tried to sneer but it came across as more of a grimace, "Hate to disappoint you, Mom, but I don't think I want that kind of life."

"You do, I can tell." Susan shrugged. If anyone else had said it Michael would've lunged at their throat, he didn't like being read or studied. But, as it was, he couldn't look his mother in the eye.

"I'm not cut out for it." He surprised himself when he spoke, his voice was rough and low. Maybe it was the attack on Monday, or that he swore he could still smell the oil from the garage, or how his mom was looking at him. He couldn't stop it. "Can you imagine me living anywhere but the shitty apartment I live in now? Really? Because I can't."

Susan tilted her head. "Why not?"

"Because that's not me. That's Gabriel's gig. He can have the new house, the beautiful wife and that...white-picket life. That fits him. Just like it fits you - you two are alike. I'm too much like-"

"Michael, don't you dare say you are like your father." Susan cut in firmly, Michael winced. He hated the tone. "I loved the man for a reason, but he's more flaw than virtue. I see nothing of that in you."

Michael let out a shaky breath. "Well, I do." He stared at his hands, not daring to meet his mother's piercing stare. This was a bad idea, he was now regretting not staying at home with his couch.

Susan didn't like this response at all. She stood up abruptly, collected her photos into a scattered pile and turned her back on him. Michael looked up, watching her uncharacteristically sharp and aggressive movements.

"I wasn't going to talk to you about this tonight," Her back was still facing him as she shoved the pictures into a folder. "But I think you should move back home."

Michael's face went blank. "What, why?"

Susan put the folder in her bag before finally straightening up. "I've been think about it for a long time. And after what Gabriel told me..."

"What did Gabriel tell you?"

"That you had an attack at school a few days ago. That your apartment looks like no one has been in it for weeks." Susan counted the reasons off her fingers. "It doesn't matter what he told me, I can see it for myself. You've lost weight, you're pale; you can barely keep a conversation going for longer than ten minutes."

Michael leaned back, as if each thing his mother said was a physical blow. "You're blowing this way out of proportion. Sure, I'm going through a rough patch but that does not mean I have to move back home. I'm not a teenager."

"I didn't say you were." Susan shot back, not missing a beat. "But I'm worried."

"Then don't be." Michael knew he'd feel remorse for his snappy tone later.

"I'm your mother, Michael. Worrying is what I do." Susan frowned at him. Michael had forgotten how scary this woman could be when she was angry, scary in a completely different way his father had been. "I've wanted you back home ever since what happened in Dallas-"

"Don't." Michael gritted out, his hands shaking slightly. "Please don't."

Susan closed her mouth, sighing as she frowned at her son. "It won't be permanent. Just until you get back on your feet. Then maybe you could live in an actual house; somewhere to call home."

"I have a home." Michael argued, even though it was a lie. Susan knew it too.

"The apartment isn't home to you, honey. You said so yourself." Susan's voice was losing its anger, now it was sounding more and more tired. "I'd just feel better if you were around other people. You're too isolated in that apartment by yourself."

"I'm not isolated! I like being on my own."

"And that was a good thing for a while. It's not what you need right now."

"Since when do you know what I need?" Michael demanded, his voice rising. He was going to hate himself for this later, but he couldn't stop. "I've been looking after myself - and dad - since I was nine years old. And from what I remember I did a pretty damn good job of it. So I don't have to stand here and listen to this."

Michael stood up and stalked from the kitchen.

"Michael..." Susan called after him, but he didn't stop. He just yanked open the front door and stepped out into the oncoming night, not bothering to stop the momentum from slamming the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

Sometimes anger had a hangover. Even if Michael didn't have a drop of alcohol, or he had succumbed to sleep before ten o'clock - he still woke with a headache and a tormenting sense that he'd fucked up; that he'd acted in some way he shouldn't have. That he hadn't been himself.

Michael woke the next morning on his couch - which was starting to be the norm, now - and remembered vividly that he had a fight with his mom. The words he remembered saying felt like poison in his mouth. He hadn't fought with her in years and, if he did, it was always for good reason. While Susan treated Gabriel with affection and respect, she almost coddled Michael; like she was making up for the years of abuse he had endured with his father that she didn't know about.

Michael hated it. He hated being coddled, he hated people worrying about him. So for the next week, he shut everyone out. He ignored texts, ignored calls; shut himself away in his classroom, burying himself in paperwork and boring little tasks. Anything to take his mind off his life, which was, slowly but surely, crumbling into pieces around him.

He hadn't slept in his bed in days, despite the fact his couch and TV still couldn't keep the nightmares away.

He couldn't remember the last time he went for groceries. Most nights, if he finally gave in to his body's need to be fed, he would stop at the sandwich shop on his way home from work.

What felt like years ago, Michael looked forward to cooking dinner. He still had cook books on his bookshelf. He still had some cooking shows saved in his TV. He remembered Susan saying, one Thanksgiving, that his apple pie was better than hers.

That felt like a world away. And Michael was certain he couldn't go back.

Susan didn't call. She didn't text either. It wasn't very relaxing at all. Some nights, Michael imagined that he was falling asleep in that house across town, in the bedroom he hadn't called his since he was a kid.

Maybe if he were there, the nightmares would stay away.

He didn't dwell on it. There was no way for him to know, and he'd be damned if he let himself find out.

Each day at school, Michael was aware of Samantha bringing him coffee in the morning and casting him worried, sidelong glances. But Michael shrunk away from her more than ever now.

It was early on a Thursday evening when someone pounded on Michael's apartment door. He didn't think much of it - he'd ordered Chinese food from the place down the street, since he seemed to have a menu stashed in every room - and he was just pulling a few bills out of his wallet as he opened the door.

Standing in the hall was not the lanky delivery kid Michael had grown used to, but his younger brother. Gabriel stood in the hall with a smug expression, holding in his hand not any sort of food whatsoever, but the end of a dog leash.

At the end of the leash, chewing on the material so it was soggy and dark, was a puppy.

Michael glanced at the dog then at Gabriel.

"What is that?"

"It's a puppy." Gabriel grinned. "I know you've seen a dog before, Michael."

"I know what a dog is, Gabriel." Michael snipped. The puppy looked up at Michael with big brown eyes, it's tail thumping against the carpet. "What is it doing in my apartment building?"

"Not _it_," Gabriel corrected, stepping past Michael. Tugging on the leash, the puppy followed, though the material was still clasped between his tiny teeth. "_Him_."

"Fine, _him_." Michael said impatiently. "What is _he_ doing in my apartment?"

Michael closed the door, turning around to see Gabriel stroking a hand through his fur. Gabriel looked up at Michael.

"He's yours." He said. Michael just stared.

"Come again?"

Gabriel smiled, even though Michael was having a difficult time finding anything in this situation amusing. Michael didn't do dogs. Dogs drooled and shed and...pee'd.

He was not a dog person. "One of the guys at work," Gabriel explained, "He kinda rescued him from his neighbour. The guy had a dog-fight thing going on. He was gonna be bait."

Whatever Michael's feelings were towards the species, he still grimaced. He wasn't heartless. "Well, it's great he caught a lucky break." Michael crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the counter across from his brother. "It is. But I can't take him. I don't know what to do with a dog. And I'm pretty sure it's illegal in this building."

Michael shrugged, convinced he'd made his point. But Gabriel wasn't discouraged. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few crumpled papers.

"Kali did some digging for me, found a loophole." Gabriel explained. Michael raised an eyebrow at him, taking the papers from him. "Anyone living with a mental illness is allowed to have an animal companion for therapy. It's illegal for someone to turn you down or kick you out."

Michael looked up sharply. "Living with a mental illness?"

Gabriel shot him a kind of _don't screw with me_ look. "Yes, Michael. You were diagnosed with depression and PTSD ages ago. It doesn't just disappear."

"No shit." Michael muttered, flipping through the pages. He spotted the local animal control and his landlords signature. He looked at Gabriel. "You arranged all of this, didn't you?"

Gabriel took a breath, looking at the puppy who was currently chewing on one of his front paws. "You didn't want to move back home, you don't let anyone come over. This was my last resort."

"A dog? A dog is your last resort."

Gabriel looked up at him. "This'll be good for you. You'll have some company, someone to look after and be responsible for."

Michael shook his head. "Someone else to let down, Gabriel. I can hardly get off my ass to look after myself."

Gabriel pursed his lips. "You don't give yourself enough credit."

Michael gave a short, humorless laugh.

"Michael," Gabriel said, his voice level, "I wouldn't have brought him here if I didn't think you could do it. I trust you, alright? I think you'll both be good for each other."

Michael looked at Gabriel, before flicking his eyes to the dog.

He _was_ kind of cute. He had a full tan coat, but Michael could see he had a bit of white on his chest. His snout was a slightly darker brown, almost black. His eyes were brown too, reminding Michael of another pair of brown eyes he couldn't get out of his mind. As he looked at him, the puppy's tail thumped against the floor enthusiastically, stretching out on his belly to lick Michael's toes. He sighed, recognising defeat.

"What's his name?"

Gabriel tried to hold back a triumphant smile. "He doesn't have one. That's up to you."

Michael glared at the puppy who was now biting his feet. "I suck at naming things."

Gabriel stood up, reaching into his pocket only to pull out more papers. "That's all his info. He's only four months, so he'll need to be fixed soon. He's up to date on his shots, too."

Michael took the papers reluctantly, still not fully convinced.

"I dunno, man. I don't even know what a dog eats. What if he wrecks stuff? Or gets hurt?" He said, eyebrows knitting together as he looked through the papers.

"We'll go and get him stuff right now." Gabriel said, "He'll need a crate, some toys, too. And dishes. If he gets sick or hurt, there's a vet right around the corner. You can't go wrong." Gabriel clapped Michael on the shoulder, and the puppy barked at them. Michael threw Gabriel a traitorous glance.

Two hours and an exhausting trip later, Michael found himself standing in his kitchen watching the puppy tear, what had been a perfectly good, stuffed toy to pieces. There were other toys scattered around him - a tennis ball, a bone made out of cloth, a rubber pig that oinked every goddamn time it was touched - and a pair of ceramic dishes sat beside the fridge with a bag of dog food. A crate was tucked behind the couch.

Michael stared at the dog for a little while. "I'm just doing this for Gabriel, you know." He informed him. The puppy glanced up, teeth still chewing on the toy. "One wrong move, you're going back to where you came from."

The puppy's tail wagged, as if calling Michael's bluff. He frowned.

"Look, there are some rules to this place, alright?" He said. The puppy stopped chewing, his head tilting at Michael's voice. He regarded him with curious eyes and Michael stood up straight. He was not going to be swayed by a pair of (quite literal) puppy dog eyes.

"Rule one," He said, not caring he was addressing a dog who had absolutely no idea what he was saying. "No dogs in the car. Tonight was an exception, because I couldn't leave you here to tear everything up, could I?"

The dog whined.

"Two," Michael held up a second finger, "You sleep in the crate. No exceptions. Capiche?"

The whine turned into a playful growl.

"And three - don't wreck my stuff. My clothes, the bed and the couch are off limits. You're a dog. Dogs stay on the floor. We'll get a plaque if you don't understand." The dog licked his lips and tilted his head. Michael pushed off the counter and headed for the couch, the dog followed quickly at his heels.

"Woah." He said, turning around, "Personal space. Go play with your toys." The puppy proceeded to grab the hem of Michael's jeans in his mouth.

"Cut it out." Michael shook his leg a little. The puppy latched on tighter and Michael groaned. He bent down and pried the fabric out of the dog's mouth.

Once settled on the couch, Michael flicked through the channels until he found a tv show. He didn't have any papers to grade and the next day was Friday. He had no plans for the weekend, apart from ignoring phone calls and housework, using the free time to sleep his life away, convinced that was the only thing he was good at.

His eyes were starting to droop when he felt something drop onto his chest. He opened his eyes as the puppy began licking his face enthusiastically, drool and slobber swiping across his chin. "Really?" Michael griped, picking the dog up and carrying him to the crate behind the couch. He shut the door firmly. The puppy whined.

"Life sucks, kid." He rolled over the top of the couch and settled onto it. "The sooner you realise that the better."

He fell asleep soon after, but before midnight came around, he was awakened by forlorn howling. Rubbing his eyes blearily, Michael stumbled from the couch and over to the crate. "Alright, _fine._" He growled, opening the door. The puppy bounded out and he picked him up and carried him over to the couch. He fell onto his back, settling the dog on his chest. He wagged his tail rapidly, licking Michael's face as he scrunched his nose up.

"Don't get used to this." He said groggily. "One-time thing."

The dog didn't argue, just settled onto Michael's chest happily. Within minutes they were both asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Samantha wasn't an early riser. She wasn't going to deny it. Sleep was far too addicting. There were few things she liked better than sleeping happily till noon, the blankets creating this world of warmth and comfort around her.

As it was, that weekend, sleep wasn't working for her. Her eyes snapped open just after six-thirty. She wasn't really surprised, she hadn't had a good nights sleep since she found Michael in his classroom.

She groaned, turning over and readjusting the blankets, trying to fall back asleep. Her body wasn't having it. A quick glance out the window showed that it had snowed over night, Samantha decided this was a good reason to take a morning walk.

xXx

It snowed overnight. First snow of the season. Michael woke to a pale light pouring through his window, and the sound of something crashing to the floor in his bedroom.

"The hell-" He pushed himself up from the couch, any trace of sleep draining out of him at the thought of there being someone in his apartment.

He moved quietly over to the cabinet and retrieved his father's old M1911 from the top drawer. He held the gun beside his thigh, but before he could move any further, his eyes fell on the crate. That's when it clicked. Michael dropped the gun onto the coffee table.

"Stupid dog." He griped, running his hands through his hair as he stalked towards his bedroom.

The puppy stood on top of the mess that was Michael's toppled over bookcase. He had nosed through old paperbacks and ten-year old comics. His tail was wagging furiously, Michael groaned.

"It's way too early for this." Michael lifted the puppy off the mess and placed him back in the living room. "Stay or...whatever."

Michael walked back into the bedroom to try and put everything back into order. He was soon interrupted, again, by a consistent barking. He sighed and threw a pile of books onto his bed, trudging back through to the living room.

"What is it now?"

Michael's eyes fell on the dog who was intently watching the muted TV. Michael smiled slightly.

"You like that, huh?" Michael picked up the remote to view the name. "Dexter. That guy's got some issues." The puppy's ears pricked up at Michael's voice.

"Dexter?" Michael repeated, the puppy's head tilted. "Maybe I should name you that. I need something to yell when you wreck my stuff." The puppy's tail began thumping on the ground, he barked.

"Dexter it is."

When Michael took him out to do his business, he realised that dogs were the type of animals who liked exercise. And he probably wasn't going to get any peace and quiet until Dexter - who was currently chewing aggressively on the end of his leash - was tired out a little bit.

Not ten minutes later, he was walking towards the park, Dexter chewing enthusiastically at his heels. The morning was crisp and bright, the rising sun sparkling off the frost that clung to the trees. The ground was covered with a light layer of snow. As he walked, cool air filled his lungs and wiped away the sleep from his eyes.

Michael let Dexter run through the dying grass of the park, rubbing his face in the snow until his muzzle was soaked. As the sun rose, the snow melted and Dexter finally seemed a little tired out. Michael sat down on a bench and closed his eyes.

Okay, so maybe getting a dog wasn't the worst idea. If it weren't for him, Michael would still be asleep on the couch. Which wasn't overall a bad thing, but how often was he awake to see a sunrise?

After resting his eyes for a few moments, Michael realised he couldn't feel the familiar, slight tug on the end of the leash. He snapped his eyes open.

The leash was draped over the arm of the bench, the nylon drenched and chewed off right before the metal clip. Dexter was nowhere to be seen.

Michael stood up quickly, dropping the now ruined leash from his hands.

"Dexter?" He called, his breath rising in the cool air, even though there was no way the puppy already knew his name. He looked down and saw a few small paw prints disappearing behind a group of trees, toward the small pond in the park. Michael ran off in that direction.

"Dexter!" He called again, his voice echoing. When he rounded the trees he saw Dexter trotting through the frosty shallows, four inches of ruined leash behind him.

Michael let out a breath, bracing for a second against his knees before heading towards the puppy.

"Damn dog." He huffed. Seeing him, Dexter skipped through the water happily, his wet paws dragging through the mud on the bank. Michael bent down and picked him up, his hands fitting beneath the dog's armpits. Dexter wriggled and Michael scrunched his nose up, mud flying everywhere and splattering his clothes.

That's when a familiar laugh floated over to him. Michael looked up to see Samantha standing on the path beside the pond.

"So this is how you spend your weekends?" She asked, looking thoroughly amused. Michael rolled his eyes.

"Not ideally, no." He replied, stepping away from the pond and setting the puppy back down on the grass. He proceeded to roll around, smearing mud all over his belly and back. Michael grimaced.

"New parent?" Samantha asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Unplanned parent." Michael amended. Dexter began to trot away but Michael was able to bend down and pick him up before he got too far. "Didn't think I'd see anyone this morning. What, did you come to feed the pigeons?"

Samantha smiled at Michael's attitude. "I actually have a fear of birds - I'm not complaining, you're providing some much needed entertainment."

Dexter tucked his chin around, chewing on Michael's hand. Michael was holding him at arms length, refusing to let him get too close to mark his jacket with mud.

"Bite me." He growled at Samantha, to his surprise, she laughed.

"My landlord's gonna kill me." Michael went on, "The mud he's gonna drag into the building."

Samantha composed herself. "If you want, you can clean him up at my place. It's only down the street."

Michael looked up, seeing Samantha gesturing down the road with her hand. Michael was about to politely decline, because going to Samantha's definitely did not fit the plan of not getting close to the woman. But Dexter was filthy, and he was starting to lose feeling in his fingers, and it would be great to not make the mess in his apartment any bigger.

"Are you sure?" Michael asked, his eyebrow arching as he looked at Dexter. "He's pretty dirty. I don't want to impose or anything."

"You wouldn't be imposing." She insisted. "You look like you could use a hand."

Michael pursed his lips, looking at Samantha, then at the dog, who was now growling in annoyance.

"Yeah...You might be right about that."

xXx

Michael was slightly surprised when Samantha didn't lead him to a house or apartment, but a small motel around the corner. It was cute, he supposed. The walls were a pale purple and the manger seemed to have a thing with squirrels because they were everywhere; on the coffee cups, in picture frames tacked onto the wall, embroidered on the blanket on the bed.

"Please ignore the décor, it's awful." Samantha said thinly, closing the door. Michael had Dexter tucked under his arm like a football, he gave up on not getting mud on his favourite jacket. "I've still gotta look for a place of my own."

Michael chuckled. "I can see why. This place has squirrels, man. Not every house has that."

Samantha rolled her eyes at Michael's teasing, but she smiled regardless.

"Bathroom's in here." Samantha showed Michael down the short hall and into the tiny bathroom, where Michael set Dexter down in the bathtub. His paws slipped on the porcelain, creating long streaks of mud. Michael grimaced. Samantha bent down to turn on the water, putting a hand under the tap.

Michael shrugged off his jacket and folded it carefully, before setting it on the bathroom counter. "I didn't sign up for this." He muttered. Samantha looked at him.

"He wasn't your idea?" She asked curiously. Michael looked at Dexter who was lapping up water with his tongue as it filled the tub.

"Gabriel's idea." Michael said stiffly. "He thought I could use the responsibility. Or something like that."

Samantha laughed quietly. "You don't seem too thrilled about the whole idea."

"I'm not a dog person." Michael admitted, kneeling down to take off the collar around Dexter's neck. It didn't even have tags yet - he'd have to stop and get some. He thought about what would've happened if he never found him in the park and shivered. "Dogs are Gabriel's thing. He had a dog growing up - a Rottweiler - I suppose he was an exception to the rule."

Dexter was licking long stripes up Michael's arms, the drool sticking uncomfortably to his skin. "Cut it out, will you?"

Samantha chuckled again and Michael glanced at her. She pressed her lips together.

Michael started to wash the mud out of his fur. He was surprised when Samantha helped distracting Dexter by rubbing his ears and scratching his neck as Michael picked up each paw, rubbing the dirt from between the soft pads.

"So," Michael started, just to break the silence. "I get not finding the right place, but aren't you dying to get outta here?"

"I'm sort of used to it. I haven't had a place of my own in...years." Samantha looked down at the puppy, running her fingers over its nose.

Michael's curiosity peaked. He thought back to Dean and his insistence to crack Samantha's code, but he hadn't heard anything from him in a while. "Yeah? Why not?" He tried to sound casual and off-hand.

Samantha glanced at Michael, weighing her words a little before answering. "After I got my degree, I wasn't really going to settle down anywhere. So I took temporary teaching jobs, didn't get attached, kept to the road." She gave a small shrug at Michael's curious stare.

"Not anymore though?" Michael asked, turning his attention back to Dexter. Samantha gave a small, somewhat sad, smile.

"I think I should stop wandering around aimlessly now."

Michael nodded. It was silent for a moment between the two. "So, why Houston?" He asked, Dexter was mostly clean, but Michael let him play in the water for a bit. "I don't mind it here, I grew up here. But it's a pretty odd town to decide to settle down in."

Samantha swallowed quickly and she looked down at the water; Michael could see a guard go up in her eyes. This must be a sensitive topic. And whatever Samantha said next was either heavily censored or a flat-out lie."

"I've got family nearby." Her tone was light but sharp. "If I'm gonna settle down, might as well be near them, right?"

Michael nodded, accepting Samantha's explanation without question. He looked at Dexter, who was soaking wet, but clean and pleased to be getting so much attention.

"Alright, I think he's finished." Michael said, sitting back on his heels. Samantha stood up and grabbed a towel from the back of the door, while Michael picked Dexter up, water running off his little body in streams. Michael wrinkled his nose, there were a lot of smells he didn't like and wet dog was high up on that list.

Turning, he let Samantha drape the towel over Dexter, then Michael sort of wrapped him up in it and held him against his chest, rubbing the towel to help soak up the water. Dexter pressed back against him, tilting his head back and slathering Michael's chin with slobber. Michael leaned back, but he couldn't help but smile. He reached up and scratched his ears, the fur feeling like velvet against his fingers.

That's when he looked up and saw Samantha leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a smug look on her face.

"What?" Michael demanded. Samantha smoothed away her expression, feigning innocence.

"Nothing. It's just...you said you're not a dog person. But from what I've seen, you look very much like a dog person."

Michael pouted and rubbed Dexter's back.

"Maybe he's another exception?" Samantha ventured, Michael shrugged sheepishly.

"We're still in our honeymoon phase." He quipped, Samantha laughed. Michael looked up at the noise and smiled.

It was too cold to walk Dexter home while he was still wet, so Michael let him run around Samantha's motel room as he dried.

Samantha sat cross-legged on the floor as Dexter climbed onto her lap. Michael hesitated slightly before sitting down next to her.

"So, Gabriel's idea?" Samantha raised an eyebrow at him and Michael shifted. Obviously, Samantha knew there was more to the story than he was letting on. She decided not to pry.

"He's your older brother?" Samantha asked, Michael almost laughed.

"No, no. He's younger than me. By four years."

"Oh." Samantha's eyebrows shifted up slightly. "It's just the way he looks out for you, kind of seems like a protective older brother thing."

Dexter was gnawing on the hem of Michael's jeans, the fabric turning wet and dark. Michael watched him, not daring to look at Samantha.

"That's how it's been the past few years. Growing up it was the other way around. I'd always get in trouble for beating up the guys who we're giving him trouble."

Samantha chuckled, her brown eyes watching Michael with great affection. Michael noticed and it sent sparks of warmth through his system.

"We didn't live in the same house growing up, so I sort of felt like I had to make up for it. Made sure everyone knew not to fuck with my little brother."

"So you were one of those students." Samantha teased, and Michael laughed softly.

"Yeah, I guess. If I had to teach me, I'd probably pull my hair out."

Samantha chuckled too, then her expression turned again. "You and Gabriel didn't live together?"

Michael's first instinct was to steer this conversation into safer waters. But he didn't want to. He didn't talk about things like this - except with his mom or Gabriel - but, he trusted Samantha.

"No. My parents split up when we were young. They didn't want to drag in lawyers and have custody battles or any of that." Michael scratched the fur on Dexter's back, focusing on the sensation of his fur. "My dad had us on weekends, but I don't think living alone was working for him. So I moved in when I was twelve. Gabriel stayed with mom. Seemed like a good idea - even share."

Michael looked up at Samantha. Her eyes were sad and sympathetic - Michael's stomach twisted, he hated that.

"Sorry." He whispered. "I didn't mean to dump that on you."

"Don't be sorry." Samantha's voice was soft. "I like talking with you."

Michael gave a timid smile and they were quiet.

"It makes sense that your students like you as much as they do. You get them."

Michael frowned slightly. "I don't think my students like me that much. I think they're just happy I'm not the type of teacher who dumps a pile of homework on them on Fridays."

Samantha's eyes narrowed. "I don't think you see yourself very clearly." She stated. Michael was taken aback by her tone.

"What do you mean?" He huffed quietly, looking down again. Apparently Dexter was finally tired out, he was starting to doze off, his back legs pressed against Michael's crossed ones.

"I'm talking about what I've learned about you in the past few weeks." She tilted her head slightly. "Your humour is eighty-percent self depreciation."

"So?"

"So...you should give yourself more credit." She stated. "Maybe you're students like you because they know you're a good person."

Michael shook his head, turning away from her. "No offence, but you don't know me too well."

Samantha placed a hand on his shoulder. "You might be right, but I'm pretty intuitive. I find it hard to believe you're not a good person."

Michael searched her face, the silence around them growing heavier. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Samantha's hand moved up to Michael's cheek. Her breathing quickened as she stroked his cheek with her thumb. Her eyes entangled with his.

"Because I probably care about you more than I should."

Michael let out a breath, leaning into her touch ever so slightly. Relief and happiness flooded his system, feelings he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time. He felt like he was ripping his heart out when he moved away.

"Look, Sammy..." His voice pained, "I like you, too. But...we can't."

We can't? He can't. Can't stop thinking about her, about her soft, soothing voice that pulled him out of the fire of his own mind. Can't even fathom getting close to her because Michael doesn't do relationships and he would inevitably break her heart, he couldn't imagine being someone Samantha deserved.

Samantha dropped her hand, shifting away from Michael. The space felt instantly cold. He wanted the grounding contact of her hand again. But Samantha's walls had gone up, the polite blankness replacing the hurt in her eyes.

"It's alright, I get it. It would be awkward."

Samantha stood up.

"I'll go grab your jacket." She smiled politely, the forced one, not the genuine one, and quickly left the room.


	11. Chapter 11

Michael jolted awake later that day. It was dark out. The clock read 8:06.

His heart was racing, he wasn't sure why. Everything just felt _wrong_.

Michael began to pace. He started to clean, sort through clothes and he started a cycle on the washing machine. He put his comforter back on his bed even though he was certain he wouldn't sleep in there tonight.

But strangely, suddenly, he couldn't imagine a time when he would ever sleep in that bed again. He couldn't imagine his life continuing into next week or even the next hour; everything was spinning out of control and he couldn't get a grip on it. He couldn't get a grip on anything. He wasn't sure if he was going crazy or if he was dying and quite frankly, he wasn't sure which of those options he preferred.

His posters were still sitting on the table, awaiting repair or to be thrown out. And Michael was suddenly fed up with the fact he had to make that decision.

He wasn't sure why, but tearing them up seemed like a good plan of action, so that's what he did. He tore them in halves, then into quarters and then smaller and smaller. The harsh ripping sound somehow grounded and soothed him.

Once he was done, his fingers still itched, and his pulse still raced. But the fog in his brain had thinned somewhat and he could now feel himself going off the deep end. He was wading in dangerous waters and he couldn't swim - he knew he wouldn't make it out this time.

Michael pulled his trembling fingers through his hair and began to go over his options. He and Dr. Novak had gone over several coping mechanism, but at this moment, Michael couldn't remember a single one and he doubted they'd work if he did. He stopped seeing Novak years ago, he stopped needing him.

He thought about calling his little brother, but it was passed eight 'o clock on a Saturday and Michael didn't want to interrupt date night. He didn't want to ruin it.

He couldn't call his Mom. He wouldn't allow her to see him like this.

That's when he spotted the note taped to the fridge. He'd thought about taking it down a hundred times, but he liked the way it looked up there. He liked the elegant scrawl of her name and her numbers.

After this morning, he figured he had absolutely nothing to lose. So he found his cellphone and despite his shaking hands, was able to dial the number.

Samantha picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

The soft voice shot through Michael's body, a welcoming calm to his frayed nerves.

"Sammy." Michael choked out, then stopped.

"Michael?" Samantha's voice hitched with surprise. "What's going on?"

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, taking another shaky breath. "I dunno...I just don't feel so hot right now."

"Where are you?" Samantha asked, her voice urgent and low.

"I'm at my apartment."

"Are you alright?"

"I don't think I am." Michael looked at his apartment in which he was certain was now a prison of which he could never escape - even if he wanted to. "I just feel really bad right now."

"Don't move." There was a sound of movement on Samantha's end. "I'll be right there. Stay put, alright?"

Michael swallowed hard. "Okay."

xXx

Samantha didn't have a car. Or a bike. Calling a cab would only take longer, the public transport system in Texas was much slower than when she was in Chicago or New York.

So she ran. Her only blessing that night was that she was a good runner. She made it to Michael's in just over ten minutes, her breathing was only laboured from panic - she'd hardly broken a sweat at all.

The door of Michael's apartment building worked on a code system instead of a key, fortunately Michael was able to text Samantha the code so she could get in easily. She decided on taking the three flights of stairs up to Michael's apartment, the elevator would've just slowed her down.

Samantha didn't bother knocking, just pushed through the door and looked around wildly, worried at what she might find.

Michael sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets. His face was buried in his hands. Dexter sat on his lap, ears pinned back in distress. He looked at Samantha and whined. But Michael was in one piece and he was breathing, so Samantha took this as a good sign. She closed the door behind her gently and then knelt down in front of him.

"Michael?" She asked quietly. Michael peaked up at her, his grey eyes red-rimmed and blown wide with panic. Samantha offered a small, reassuring smile.

"Heya, Sammy." Michael rasped - he sounded terrible.

"We have to stop meeting like this." Samantha quipped, though her voice was strained and worried. "Why am I always finding you on the floor?"

"Floors are...safer somehow." Michael mumbled.

Samantha considered this, looking around at the kitchen floor. Noticing the torn up papers strewn everywhere. She looked back at Michael.

"Do you wanna tell me what happened?" She asked softly.

"Had a panic attack."

"Okay. About what?"

Michael dropped his hands on to Dexter's back. His tail twitched feebly. "It was a bad day. Besides this morning."

Michael smiled timidly, Samantha couldn't help the warmth that bloomed in her chest.

"So...this morning was good. What changed?" She tilted her head and looked at him, but Michael avoided her gaze.

"Guess I just wished I stayed with you longer." Michael shrugged lightly, playing with Dexter's tail. "I've had problems with this before, it's nothing new."

"Panic attacks?" She asked. Michael nodded.

"I got better. I haven't had to worry about this in years." He sighed heavily. "I guess I knew it'd get bad again. Nothing lasts forever, right?"

"Have you ever told anyone about this?"

"Gabe and Mom know." Michael flicked a gaze up at Samantha, but he never held it. "No one else. I don't like talking about it."

"You're talking with me." She said simply, Michael's cheeks went a little red.

"You're different. You don't make me feel like I'm crazy."

Samantha sighed, setting herself down on the floor next to Michael, their knees bumping together. Neither of them seemed to mind much.

"You're not crazy, Michael. Why do you say that?" She asked, her voice hushed. Michael shrugged.

"That's what my Dad said."

From what she heard so far, Michael's father didn't seem like a nice guy. Her eyes fell on the torn up papers on the ground.

"Was that you? Or was it Dexter?"

Michael looked down at the puppy. He could so easily blame it on him, but he didn't. "I thought it would make me feel better."

"Did it?"

"Not really."

Samantha looked over at Michael, he still wasn't making much eye contact, but it was understandable.

"You seem a little better than how you sounded on the phone." She offered.

"I started feeling better once I knew you were coming." Michael looked up at Samantha, his grey eyes meeting her brown ones. Samantha felt her muscles relax.

"I'm really glad you called me, Michael." Her brows knitted together as she considered what the alternative options were. "You feel any better?"

Michael sighed. "I'm tired. Which is odd because I slept all day."

"Panic attacks are exhausting." Samantha agreed. "They take quite a toll on your body."

"You ever have one?"

"No, not personally, but I know people. You think you can get up off the floor?"

Michael tilted his head back against the cabinet, letting his eyes close. "Do I have to?"

"Theoretically? No." Samantha said thoughtfully. "But...the tile isn't comfortable and I think the couch would be better."

Michael was quiet as he considered this, muttering an acceptance before clearing his throat.

Smiling at her small victory, Samantha stood. Michael lifted Dexter off his lap and allowed Samantha to help him to his feet.

The few times when Gabriel had been around to witness one of his attacks, Michael hated himself for days after it. He had never felt as vulnerable, or as childish, or as stupid as he did after an attack. Michael hated Gabriel's insistence that he ate and rested and talked about what happened. The aftermath of the attack was almost as traumatising as the actual thing.

Samantha helped him clean up the papers on the floor, before settling Michael on the couch. The TV was on, a sports show running through the week's highlights. Michael tucked his legs under himself, well aware that it made him look like a scolded ten-year-old, but he didn't care.

"Is it alright if I stay for a while?" She asked cautiously. "It seems like you're doing better, but I wouldn't mind being absolutely sure."

Michael felt himself soften, he almost wanted to reply - _of course you can stay, I want you here, that's why I called you, you idiot_ \- but he simply nodded.

"You can stay, Sammy."

Almost visibly relieved, Samantha sat down on the couch beside Michael, though she stayed diligently on her own end. Michael thought back to that morning, how he moved himself from Samantha's touch. His stomach swirled with guilt.

"Michael," Samantha started, her voice cautious, "I know you said you don't like to talk, but..."

Michael inhaled sharply. "I know."

"It doesn't have to be with me, but it needs to be with someone." She said hurriedly.

Michael was quiet for a moment. "I like talking to you, Sammy, I want to. But...not tonight. I'm one hundred percent ready for this day to be over."

To his surprise, Samantha seemed satisfied with his answer. Her eyes softened kindly. "Of course."

Michael nodded, the relief making him weak. "Alright...wanna watch TV?"

Luckily, one of the local channels was having a marathon of the fourth season of Friday Night Lights. It was one of Michael's favourites, the familiar characters and plot lines soothed him somehow. He explained some points of the story to Samantha, who was adorably confused by it - particularly the football parts which was a game she had apparently never played in her life.

Samantha talked him into ordering food. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten since the night before. He didn't look particularly well-fed, but hey - he was working on it.

They got Thai food, it tasted better than Michael was expecting.

Michael had played tug-of-war with Dexter until he was tuckered out. Sometime past midnight, Michael and Samantha sank lower into the couch, their legs tentatively bumping and tangling together as sleep tugged at them.

Samantha didn't mention anything about going home. Michael didn't either.

Sometime after episode four, Michael fell asleep. He remembered the feeling of his head sinking deeper and deeper into the cushion they rested on the couch's arm, his neck starting to ache. His legs were pressed against Samantha's, the warmth reaching out from beneath their clothes, pulsing into one another.

As Michael fell asleep, he knew he wouldn't have nightmares.

A few hours later, the sensation of movement and stirring quickly jolted him awake. He was rarely a deep sleeper. He instantly became aware of his darkened living room; darker than when he had fallen asleep. Someone had turned off the TV.

Fear made his blood cold. His eyes were too slow in adjusting to the light, and he propped himself up on his elbows, looking around wildly.

Samantha was just above him, halfway through the task of draping a blanket over Michael's sleeping figure. Another spasm of fear pierced through him when he considered the possibility that she was about to leave - that he would've woken up and found himself alone.

Samantha had realised Michael was awake, and he looked like he was about to say something, but he didn't. Even in the dim light, Michael could see the intensity in those brown eyes, and he just looked back. Everything was quiet, aside from the sound of Michael's breath, laboured a little after being startled awake.

And then Michael reached forward, fitting his hand firmly around the back of Samantha's neck, and pulled her mouth down to meet his. Samantha gave a surprised intake of breath.

Michael's entire body hummed at the feeling of Samantha's mouth melding with his. He sighed, letting his hand slide up and run through her hair.

Michael's mind was reeling, still hazy from sleep and the emotion of the day before. Samantha slid her hands up Michael's chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath her palms, she rested them finally on his neck. Michael preened under the touch.

It had been too long since either of them had kissed someone like this - slow and lazy and hot, tongues and teeth scraping, breath pulsing into each other's mouths. There was no thought of a greater endgame; no sense of urgency. They kissed to feel and taste one another, the dark living room and late hour making them feel safe and hidden; the world hushed around them.

After a while, his legs started to fall asleep, so Michael laid back and pulled Samantha with him. The couch wasn't all that big, but Samantha's body fit next to Michael's perfectly, their legs sliding together, comforting despite the jeans they hadn't taken off. They lied facing each other in the couch, lips never parting.

Samantha's hands never strayed from Michael's face. Her thumb stroked a comforting rhythm across his cheek, and Michael let his hands rest on Samantha's hips.

There was no sense of more to their movements. Instead, everything like this - the soft press of lips, the lingering touches, the breathy sighs as they relaxed into each other. It was easy and comfortable and so, so good.

Once their hearts began to slow, the pulled away from each other. Samantha's breath played softly across Michael's lips, and she opened her eyes, finding Michael's immediately.

For a few moments, they just caught their breath, and then Sammy rested her forehead against Michael's. Michael leaned into her, his heart thrumming with happiness. Even after the heat in their stomachs had cooled, they didn't move. Their bodies were too comfortable pressed against one another; chests rising and falling steadily, arms and legs tangled.

The last thing Michael remembered was Samantha's arm draping loosely across his hip.


	12. Chapter 12

Samantha woke at dawn. Any other morning, this would be reason enough for grumpiness of epic proportions. Sleeping in was vital for her emotional well-being.

That morning, however, the first thing she was aware of - instead of the ungodly hour - was an arm wrapped firmly around her body. Opening her eyes, she saw Michael was still merely inches away from her. His lips were pink and kiss-bruised, his forehead smoothed out with sleep. It was as calm and as blissful as Samantha had ever seen him.

Slowly, warmth spread to every inch of her body. She was aware of her shins pressing against Michael's; their chests rising and falling together; the way Michael's breath would pass gently across his lips. Everything was peaceful and warm, and Samantha let a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

Dexter stirred on the ground beside Michael, and a low whine sounded through the morning quiet. Moving as little as she could, Samantha very reluctantly pushed herself up from between the back of the couch and Michael's sleeping body. Seeing that she was awake, Dexter's tail began slapping against the ground happily.

Samantha quietly rummaged around Michael's kitchen as she searched for Dexter's food. She filled his dishes, watching with a strange sense of satisfaction as he ate the food greedily. She leaned against the counter, scratching her fingers through her hair (she was certain she had a bad case of bed-head) as she decided what to do next.

Her mind immediately went to those feverish kisses from last night. It wasn't even qualified as kissing - it was just tasting and melting and breathing into each other. It made Samantha's stomach curl with warmth and a blush rose to her face. But it had been midnight, everything seemed different in the fogginess of sleep and darkness.

However, Michael had been extremely vulnerable last night. Samantha wouldn't hold him to anything.

But she wasn't going to leave, either. So she pushed away from the counter and began to search through the cupboards, crossing her fingers that she could make Michael breakfast without ruining it.

xXx

Michael woke up when he realised he was cold. He didn't usually sleep without the reassuring protection of his comforter, so the empty space above and around him left him feeling exposed.

It wasn't just the blanket, though. Michael remembered the comforting weight of Samantha against him and he inhaled sharply when he realised it wasn't there anymore.

Pale morning light drifted through the living room window, and he could hear the sound of someone in the kitchen, the smell of slightly burnt toast reaching his nostrils.

Groaning a little, Michael sat up, setting his feet on the floor. He ran his hands through his hair, feeling the ends sticking up at odd angles. As he did, the memories of last night floated back to him. He remembered the sharp panic at the thought of Samantha leaving; how he just needed her, pressed close and breathing into him.

Michael thought of Samantha's hot mouth, how his hands felt holding her face, gently - as if she might break.

Suddenly Samantha walked in from the kitchen, her sleep-lined face and early morning sex-hair not doing anything good for Michael's current state of mind. He shifted awkwardly.

Samantha was holding a plate stacked with toast in one hand, while she gripped two mugs of coffee in the other. Dexter followed closely at her heels.

"I made breakfast." Her usually soft voice was replace with something a little bit more raspier in the early morning hours. "But you didn't have much to work with. Maybe it's for the best, I'm a terrible cook."

Michael smiled and averted his gaze as she place the coffee and toast on the table in front of them. The pieces of toast alternated between peanut butter and jam. Michael's coffee had sugar and milk in it, while Samantha's was plain black.

"Thanks, Sammy." Michael said. He reached forward and took a piece of toast with peanut butter on it, his stomach rumbled greedily. Was he always this hungry in the morning? "You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to." Samantha replied, obvious affection colouring her tone. Michael didn't mind it. Samantha had a few sips of coffee as she idly scratched Dexter's head as Michael ate.

"Last night..." Samantha said after a while.

Michael glanced at her, a questioning look on his face. "Did you want that?"

"I wasn't sure if you wanted it." Samantha looked at him. "Yesterday morning...I thought you meant you never thought of me like that."

"I think of you like that." Michael sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

She tilted her head. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not," Michael said hurriedly, "It's not. I like you, Sammy. I like hanging out with you. It's just... It's taking me a while to wrap my head around this."

Samantha's eyes softened. "That's okay. I like hanging out with you too."

Michael smiled timidly, feeling his body relax. Hanging out wasn't nearly as scary as words like relationship or hook-up or even friends with benefits. It was simple. Harmless, even.

Samantha leaned forward, reaching one hand out to keep her balance on the couch. She pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Michael's lips. He tasted like fresh coffee and peanut butter and it was perfect.

After they pulled away, Michael just watched Samantha for a while. How she ran her hand through her dark hair; how her fingers sometimes got caught at the ends because it hadn't been brushed. He watched how her fingers absently trailed across Dexter's back and how her brown eyes would cast side long glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking. Michael wondered how he managed to get someone like her in his life, then he decided maybe he shouldn't question it.

Before Michael knew what he was saying,

"I think one of my students is in trouble."

Samantha froze, her eyes searching Michael's face for a moment. Michael's heart hammered in his chest as he looked back at her.

Samantha's eyebrows knitted together, and a strange look of understanding dawned on her face. As if she realised that this, this is what had been screwing with Michael; this was information he wasn't going to offer to just anyone.

"Okay." She said, her voice was a forced level of calm. "What makes you think that?"

Michael scraped a hand across his mouth, stomach twisting with nausea. He was starting to regret that piece of toast. He couldn't look at Samantha when he answered.

"I saw bruises on his arm. In the shape of a hand."

Michael's own hand had subconsciously started to rub his arm. Samantha registered the movement.

"Did you say anything to him?" Samantha asked. Michael tried - and failed - not to feel guilty when he shook his head.

"I couldn't." He sighed. "I couldn't just ask him about it. He wouldn't have talked to me - it would've made it worse."

"Okay." Samantha nodded, her voice soothing. "Did you tell anyone?"

"I sort of, kinda, asked Hannah about it." Michael peaked up at Samantha and she nodded. "But I made it seem hypothetical. She didn't buy it, but I didn't mention a name."

Samantha looked at Michael intently, quiet for a moment as she thought.

"Michael," She said cautiously, "What's the worst that could happen if you told Hannah the truth?"

Fear and frustration shot through Michael's body. "What could happen? At the very least, it'll get a few concerned teachers involved. They'd make a house call, his old man would play Daddy Dearest and as soon as he closed that door..."

Michael stopped himself and squeezed his eyes shut.

He continued, "It could get the authorities involved. Child Protective Services would take the kid from his home, throw him into foster care. With a family, or other foster kids - people who don't give a rat's ass."

Michael looked at Samantha who was watching him with a sad, concerned expression.

"Maybe you're just overreacting-"

"But I'm not, Sammy!" Michael snapped. "D'you think I'm just pulling this information out of my ass?"

Samantha snapped her mouth shut, her brown eyes turning hard as she looked at Michael. Michael pushed himself up and off the couch.

"Has this happened with a student of yours before?"

"No." Michael's tone made the word biting and cold. He didn't look at Samantha, he began to pace, running his hands through his hair and linking them behind his neck.

After a few moments, Samantha stood up, manually stopping Michael from pacing. Michael huffed a breath as he let her un-pry his fingers and put his hands back down at his sides. She looked at him.

"I get that this is really hard." She said. "But keeping this bottled up and keeping this to yourself isn't going to help him or you - not to mention that not reporting this is illegal. If anything, talk to him yourself."

Michael's jaw flexed and he shook his head.

"I don't think he'd mind talking to you," she pressed on, "He will talk to you. Then you can figure it out from there."

Michael nodded, attempting to get his breathing under control. "What if you're wrong?"

"I rarely am." She retorted, allowing a cocky smile to play at her lips.

Michael rolled his eyes, huffing a short laugh. Samantha reached out, resting her hands on Michael's shoulders tentatively. Michael moved closer and leaned his forehead against hers, the small contact grounding him.

"Is this what's been bothering you?" Samantha asked. Michael swallowed and nodded.

"The day I saw his bruises I just...freaked out. It brought back too many bad memories. Ones I'd rather forget."

Michael went cold - he knew he'd revealed way, way too much, and it was too late to take it back.

Michael cleared his throat and moved away, not daring to look at her.

"I need to take him out or he's gonna wreck the place." Michael nearly cringed at the forced calm in his voice. "I can walk you back to your place, if you want."

Samantha nodded, recognising the dismissal for what it was. "Sure, that would be great."

xXx

Michael placed the nearly finished piece of chalk onto his desk and wiped his hands. He looked over the words he'd scrawled untidily on the board and nodded.

"These are your options." He turned to face his class. "Each of you has to pick a main character and follow them to the end of the book. Your final essay will be on your character's arc throughout the book."

Meg's hand shot up.

Michael looked at her and nodded. "Meg?"

"Why isn't Two-Bit on the list? He's a main character."

"He is, but he doesn't have a character arc."

"Debatable."

"Well, this isn't a debate class, Masters." Michael ran a hand through his hair. "It's English. Use these last five minutes to pick your character, then before you leave write it on this piece of paper." Michael held up a clip board, then placed it back on his desk.

Michael sat down behind his desk and his class bubbled up into a steady stream of conversation. Satisfaction ran through him. Michael usually taught things on a structure, but switching it up seemed to be working.

His phone buzzed quietly on his desk. The screen lit up with a picture of his mother. His stomach turned uncomfortably and he tapped the ignore button, convincing himself that he was doing this because he couldn't take calls in class.

He wasn't mad at his mother anymore. Just mad at himself, ashamed of what he said. He didn't answer because he was certain she would try and apologise, and Michael was certain he did not deserve that.

Students began lining up at his desk, scribbling their names and their characters down. Michael noticed that Dallas Winston was the most common choice and he tried his hardest not to roll his eyes.

When Ben came up to the table, Michael watched him out the corner of his eye as he scrawled "Johnny Cade" onto the paper.

"Good choice."

Ben blushed slightly. "Thanks."

Michael glanced around quickly, lowering his voice slightly.

"I'd like you to stick around for a few minutes after class. You're not in trouble or anything, don't worry."

Ben searched Michael's face for a moment, distrust written in every line, he nodded anyway.

"Okay."

The bell rang and the class flooded out. Michael closed the door gently behind them, feeling Ben's eyes on him the entire time.

Taking a steadying breath, Michael walked over and slipped into the desk beside Ben. He crossed his arms and attempted to control the way his stomach was turning, curling in on itself with nerves and nausea. Michael could feel the stress radiating off of Ben.

"Relax, you're not in trouble." Michael reiterated, his voice sounding much calmer than he felt. Ben nodded, but didn't look over at him.

"Ben, I've been teaching you for a while now." Michael said, his voice gentle. "You're a good kid. Got good grades, you stay out of trouble. If I'm honest, I'm a little worried about you."

Ben swallowed and turned to finally meet Michael's gaze. He didn't look surprised. Just scared.

Michael clenched his hands into fists, then released them, attempting to get them to stop shaking. "You just don't seem like yourself. You fall asleep in class; you always seem tired, or distracted. You're grades aren't bad, but they are not what I know you're capable of."

Ben began fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of his shirt and bunching the fabric in his hands.

"I just want to make sure everything's alright. If something's bothering you. At school, at home..." Michael trailed off, giving Ben a chance to open up. However, he just shrugged stiffly.

"Nothing's bothering me. Everything's fine." His voice broke on the last word, giving him away. But he didn't say more.

"There's people you can talk to. Hannah is a fantastic guidance counsellor; a lot of kids like her. But if you'd prefer things off the record...my door is always open."

Ben nodded a few times and looked at Michael. "Is that it?"

Michael sighed, searching Ben's face before nodding. "That's it. If you're late, tell your teacher to call me."

Ben gave another nod before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and quickly exiting the room. Once the door was closed, Michael let out a gust of air.

Well... that went well.

xXx

Michael was halfway through his third period class when his phone buzzed. A text from Dean lit up the screen.

"You. Me. Lunch. We need to talk."

Michael's stomach turned uneasily, but despite his reluctance he found himself following Dean through a maze of people at a small café just off campus. Dean threw his jacket over the back of a chair and sat down. He popped open a plastic container that contained a large piece of pie, he grinned happily before prying the lid off his coffee cup.

"What is it, Dean?" Michael demanded, his own coffee and sandwich sitting neglected. "You wanted to talk to me. Spit it out."

"Jeez, calm down. Can I at least take a bite first? I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Fine." Michael scowled at him. "Who even calls a piece of pie lunch?"

Dean threw him a glance. "Um, lots of people. I can't help it, it's delicious."

Dean took a large bite of his pie while Michael rubbed his temples delicately. Sometimes dealing with Dean was more difficult than dealing with his students.

"Dean..."

"I'll talk," Dean said, his voice slightly muffled, "When you eat."

Michael rolled his eyes and picked up his sandwich, he didn't really remember what he ordered but upon tasting it he thought it was some kind of turkey club sort of deal. He chewed purposefully as he looked at Dean. It tasted like cardboard in his mouth.

"Satisfied?" He asked, swallowing. Dean narrowed his eyes at him.

"For now." Dean replied, brushing the crumbs off his fingers.

"Shoot." Michael prompted. Dean crossed his arms, his face was somber.

"I found-well, Charlie found something. About Samantha." He said. Michael went cold.

"Okay. And?"

Dean licked his lips. "Charlie started snooping around the government databases, she took a shot and started looking around requested name changes."

"And she changed her name?"

"Well, yeah." Dean turned and pulled a folded up piece of paper out of his pocket. Michael leaned forward, pushing his sandwich aside. Dean did the same, glancing at Michael as he did so.

"Samantha Banner. Born February 24, 1987 in Buffalo, New York." Dean said this gravely, as if he was revealing a massive secret, but to Michael it was a little flat.

"So, what? She's in witness protection or something?" He frowned. Dean's eyes widened.

"Seriously? The name isn't ringing a bell?" Dean asked. Michael just looked at him mutely before shaking his head. Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Banner, Michael. Her parents are Mike and Lily Banner? Literally one of the biggest crime families in New York."

Michael blinked as the information buzzed in the air around them.

"I got her birth certificate, criminal record, school transcripts - everything up until she was about twenty-two. Then Samantha Banner goes away and Samantha Riggs pops into existence."

Michael shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. If she's trying to hide, why not change her whole name? She's not really hiding from anyone with her first name in tact."

"Exactly." Dean said. "So...we can only assume she's not hiding."

Michael was still frowning. "What else did you find out?"

"Aside from this, not much." Dean shrugged. "Criminal record shows breaking and entering, theft. Pretty standard for being part of a crime family."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Oh really, Gambino?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

"Are we sure this is the same Samantha? I mean, we've got a pretty good feel for the girl. Does she seem like a felon to you?"

"She's not a felon now - that doesn't mean she never was." Dean pointed out.

Michael pursed his lips, he felt like someone had just dropped a stone on his stomach.

"I saw the ID photos." Dean's voice was hard and somber. "Even at sixteen. Same dark hair, same dark eyes. It was her, dude."

Michael's jaw tensed and he reached up to swipe his thumb across his lips. "Why are you only telling me this?"

Dean tilted his head and threw Michael a look. "Come on, seriously?"

Michael narrowed his eyes at him.

"I've seen the way you look at each other. And when you walked into the teacher's lounge this morning, she blushed so hard I thought she was gonna give herself a fever. You'd think something would've happened by now."

Michael had been taking a sip of his coffee, but now he spluttered, the drink getting caught in his throat.

"Oh my god." Dean's mouth dropped open slightly. "Something did happen. Didn't it?"

"No." Michael insisted. "Nothing happened." It was the truth, he told himself firmly. Nothing had happened. Samantha was just helping Michael out after a panic attack - that's it.

"Bullshit." Dean retorted and Michael grimaced. "Spill it."

"Nothing happened. We just hung out for a while on Saturday; watched TV, ordered some food. I was having a bad night and she just kept me company."

"How come your face is so red?"

"My face isn't red. Your face is red."

"Come on, Michael, just tell me-"

"And then we made out for a bit on my couch and she spent the night, okay? Happy?" Michael spit out, before casting a glance around the coffee shop. A young woman was glancing at him, obviously amused. Michael glared at her before turning back to Dean.

"You tell no one."

Dean pressed his lips together, holding back a laugh as he mimed zipping his lips. "But why? The school wouldn't care, as long as you report the relationship."

"I know...it's not that. It's-"

"I know, I know. You're Michael, you Don't Do Relationships." Dean said. "But I want to say I called this."

"You did not."

"I did." Dean said smugly. "Charlie said you wouldn't get together until Christmas, at least."

"She has that much faith in me, does she?" Michael covered up some of his embarrassment with the snarky comment.

"Even though I totally saw this coming," Dean said after a moment, "I'm not sure if it's a good idea."

"If what's not a good idea?"

"You and Sammy."

"There is no me and Sammy." Michael growled. "But why wouldn't it be a good idea?"

"She's a felon!" Dean's eyes went wide. "Obviously she's cleaned up a bit, but can you really ever walk away from that life? Plus, you don't need the drama, Michael."

Michael narrowed his eyes at him. "Getting a little overprotective, Winchester?"

"I'm always overprotective." Dean replied, Michael blinked as he considered it. Dean went on. "Doesn't this bother you at all?"

"What? That she's got a record?"

Dean nodded. Michael thought for a moment.

"Not really." Michael shrugged. "It kinda makes sense actually. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can't blame her - my past isn't exactly squeaky clean. I was waiting for a sign that this was a bad idea. I guess I've got one now."


End file.
